


i am a fox fatale that enthralls men

by redhoodedwolf



Series: Christmas Time [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Stiles Stilinski, But also eps 6-11 really, Derek is now and forever a Christmas baby, Figure Skater Derek, Figure Skater Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff as usual, Grand Prix Final, Ice Skating, Irish Derek Hale, Lydia/Stiles brotp, M/M, Mainly Stiles POV, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Polish and Gaelic languages used, Rings, Spoilers for Yuri on Ice Ep 1-5, Yuri on Ice AU, but you should totally watch it if you think it's something you'd like, links to music and videos included in notes, no spoilers for the finale, translations linked, you do not need to have seen the show to understand it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 48,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoodedwolf/pseuds/redhoodedwolf
Summary: Leaning casually against the handrail for the ramp, adjacent to the steps of the building, stood Derek Hale. Even though the sun was lowering in the sky, the man had sunglasses perched across his face, leather jacket over his broad shoulders accentuating his “bad boy” aesthetic.Derek spotted him only a moment later, and he pushed himself off of the railing and slowly began to approach Stiles. He raised a hand and removed his sunglasses, flipping his hair out of his eyes with the movement. The setting sun against his back created a stunning sight. What a beautiful way to die, Stiles thought as heat filled his cheeks.Derek’s eyes caught his, and Stiles knew he was done for.“Derek.” Stiles couldn’t help his voice from wobbling. “Why are you here?”Derek’s lips twitched, flat mouth evolving into a smirk. “I decided to take you up on your offering.”“Offering?”“To be your coach, of course.”***AKA the Yuri!!! on Ice AU I asked myself for  for Christmas





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HERE TAKE IT *THROWS MY TWENTY-FIVE TAB CHROME WINDOW AT YOUR FACE* HERE'S ALL MY RESEARCH  
> No but seriously I had so many tabs open omg  
> Playlists (let me know if the links don't work):  
> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/shannonrygg/playlist/0bZnmp0sg7YMRiQ0WYsrB5)  
> [Videos](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPSr1Yb3DVk54g0WR-1YJ9mHweqv5uSkM)  
> [Source for the documentary dialogue](http://animals.mom.me/mating-habits-foxes-11170.html)  
> Also y'all should look up Tarczyn it's actually super beautiful the pictures will make you happy I promise  
> PLEASE let me know if any if the translations are incorrect, I am horrifically American and know only English so if there is something wrong, kindly let me know so I can correct it! Thanks!

 

 

**Early December; Grand Prix Final:**

            The rink was bubbling with noise, the audience all talking amongst themselves as the judges were compiling the score. Stiles’ knee kept bouncing, hands clenched around his phone, staring down at the time. He converted the time change in his head. He could imagine his father sitting down to eat dinner, watching the competition on television. He could imagine the disappointment on his face, the deep furrow of his brow. The stutter of his heart.

            “Stiles.”

            Stiles kept his eyes downcast as his phone screen faded to black. He had no energy to even raise his head, let alone respond to Deaton’s call of his name. He heard the score, but he didn’t register it. He already knew his standing.

            After some of the feeling had returned to his body, Stiles had excused himself with a whispered plea, purposefully ignoring the irritated look on Deaton’s face. He speed-waked down the hallway, repeating a mantra of, “Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out,” over and over in his head. He pushed open the door to the empty men’s bathroom and locked himself away into one of the middle stalls. He was pretty sure Deaton wouldn’t come after him, but just in case.

            Collapsing onto the closed toilet lid, Stiles dropped his head to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. His hands shook —no, it was his phone. The device was still glued to his right hand, and Stiles took a deep breath as he accepted the call. ‘Tata[i]’ flashed across the screen before it faded as Stiles raised it to his ear. “Hi, Dad.”

            His father sighed heavily over the receiver. “Stiles, you skated wonderfully. We all thought so.”

            Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. “All?”

            Stiles could imagine the proud smile on his father’s face. “Yeah. I invited the whole station over and a few of the neighbors, for a little viewing party.”

            Stiles felt his heart stop. “Viewing party?” he choked out, a chill settling into his bones. _Oh God, they all saw._

            “Yeah!... Son? Are you alright?”

            The words sounded distorted in Stiles’ ears. He could feel his breathing beginning to pick up immediately. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes. The panic attack he’d been trying to hold back had begun to break through.

            “I’m sorry,” Stiles managed to choke out between labored breaths. He held the receiver away from his face, his hand shaking too much. “For disappointing you all.”

            Stiles let his hand drop, spazing thumb desperately smashing against the red ‘End Call’ button until it disappeared.

            _Pathetic_ , his mind hissed.

            The phone clattered to the floor, tears began to flow down his face, and Stiles could no longer catch a breath. He tried repeating his mantra, but his head was spinning and the world became all muddled. He could hear his blood rushing through his ears, and he slid down to the floor, to try and ride it out. He just hoped he wouldn’t pass out this time.

            His hiccupping breaths and sobs were loud, echoing in the tiled room. No one came in, and after a while, the panic attack subsided, and he got up and left.

***

            Derek Hale had been involved in international skating competitions ever since the Ice Skating Association of Ireland was recognized by the ISU in 2009. Derek had been skating all of his life, having learned from his mother who had also been a figure skater.

            His father was from Ireland, his mother from the United States. She moved to Ireland to be with Derek’s father after she got pregnant with Laura, Derek’s older sister. Once she was born, Talia Hale officially retired from figure skating. Three years later, Derek was born on Christmas on a morning of light snowfall. His parents teased he’d been born wearing skates. He certainly took to skating quickly, much faster than Laura had. He started skating young, and he started competitions young. With his mother’s name attached to his, he became known as Derek Hale in the skating world, rather than the use of his father’s given name. Once he became serious about skating, his parents allowed for him to legally change it. Hale meant skating, to Derek, so that was who he wanted to be.

            In 2009, Derek qualified for the Junior Grand Prix, but however fell just short of making it to the Final, landing him in seventh place internationally. Not one to be deterred, however, he was excited to start his next year in the senior division at age fifteen. He had his sights set on gold.

            The following year, he made it to the Grand Prix Series, winning silver in Skate America, and following with a bronze at the Trophée de France. He made it into the Grand Prix Final, but ended up falling in sixth place due to his cocky attitude causing him to over rotate on all of his quads. Still, it was monumental. He was the first Irish figure skater to compete in the Grand Prix Final. He had high hopes for the next year.

            The next year, Derek’s parents and older sister died in a car accident, leaving behind him and his nine-year-old sister, Cora. He didn’t qualify, that year.

            The year after that, Derek detested his name and skated only to work out his anger and aggression. The one competition he skated in, he neglected to perform during the free skate program, much to the fury of his coach. By that point, he was demanded to go to some kind of therapy. If not for him, then for his younger sister Cora. They were both staying with their father’s grandparents, not that Derek spent much time at home. With the threat of his sister’s wellbeing held over his head, Derek consented to therapy. It helped.

            When Derek was eighteen, he managed to qualify once again for the Grand Prix. However, just as he had during his first international competition, the Junior Grand Prix, he fell short, unable to make it to the Final, by just one spot. He started to gain his momentum back.

            By the next year, he was back to where he had been, before his family’s death. Sixth place at the Grand Prix Final. With determination filling him Derek set his sights once again on gold, this time a more hardened personality within him, and not a pinch of cockiness to be found.            Derek won five straight Grand Prix Final gold medals in a row.

***

**Late March; Tarczyn, Poland:**

            At twenty-three years of age, Stiles Stilinski moved back home to his small town of Tarczyn, thirty kilometers out of Warsaw. After going to university for five years in Detroit, Michigan (which was an experience in and of itself) and skating under a coach at a rink there, he was finally returning home. He hadn’t seen his father since he moved away, the cost of flights too much in addition to his father’s busy work schedule. Protecting a small town as head of the community guards left him quite busy. Stiles didn’t blame his father, but did miss him dearly.

            Stiles made his own way home from Warsaw Chopin Airport, carting all of his luggage onto a bus to take him back to his town. It was less than a half an hour ride, but it felt like forever as Stiles kept his eyes peeled on the grimy bus window, soaking in the country he’d missed. Representing Poland was a far cry from actually being home.

            Stiles hauled himself and all of his stuff off of the bus once he reached the bus stop. He balked at the long, covered bench, staring at a trio of posters starring him striking a dramatic pose, advertising his Grand Prix Final debut. He resisted the urge to rip them down, took a deep breath, and then started on his short half kilometer walk to his house. The surrounding area hadn’t changed much over the last five years, except for a new fence around every twentieth house or so. But to be fair, the town of Tarczyn hadn’t changed much over the last two decades, so he hadn’t been expecting much.

            When he arrived home, the front door was unlocked, and his father stood in the entrance, waiting for him with arms outstretched. Stiles fell into them and held back the urge to cry. His father said nothing, just squeezed his shoulders before pulling back and telling him that Mrs. Nowicki from down the street had made them some klopsiki and perogies to welcome him back home.

            “Everyone is excited to see you again. You should come to the station tomorrow with me.”

            Stiles shook his head vehemently at his father’s suggestion, swallowing his dinner quickly to quell his roaring hunger. “No way, I can’t face them,” he murmured, keeping his eyes averted so that his father couldn’t catch his gaze.

            There was silence on the other end of the table before a loud sigh was heard. “Alright, I won’t push, but I still think you should stop by.”

            Stiles wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin slowly, dying the white cloth with red sauce form the klopsiki. He hummed in assent, not wanting to give his father false hope. “I think, ah, I’m going to go to Ice Cathedral after dinner.”

            He looked up at his father then to see him nodding. “I assumed as much.”

            Once he finished eating, Stiles stood to clear his dishes. His father had already retired to the living area where he was turning on the television. Stiles kept a wide berth from the doorway, specifically keeping his eyes away from the television where he knew his father was turning on the Figure Skating World Championship. For the first time, Stiles had no interest in watching. He was itching to skate.

            Stiles packed his sports bag quickly, the itch under his skin growing stronger as he heard his father deliberately turn up the television volume. The announcer was speaking in English, which Stiles could speak fluently and understand even better, but his father was not as fluent. He knew the Polish subtitles would be on the television for his sake. But the fact that English was assaulting his ears made it difficult to tune it out. He knew this was an intentional move by his father. Stiles was a little touched by it. It was a silent hand-out, asking if Stiles was okay.

            Stiles passed through the living room on his way out, paused for a second to watch as the free skate program was about to start, noting the lineup of skaters. His eyes strayed to one in particular, as they always did, and the urge to skate hit him hard.

            “I’ll be back before too late,” Stiles promised his father, squeezed his shoulder, and then was off.

            Ice Cathedral was two kilometers away from his house, which was why skating was accessible to him as a child and fostered his love of it. Stiles took a brisk jog, staying on the sidewalk, sticking close to the clusters of trees off to the right side. He’d missed the beautiful views of nature of his hometown. Concrete jungles like Detroit were stunning in their own way, but nothing beat home.

            Stiles had fallen out of shape over the last few months while completing his schooling, so the short jog left him slightly out of breath. He shot out an arm and leaned it against the outside of the old-church-turned-ice-skating-rink, taking a moment to catch his breath.

            Tarczyn was home to many beautiful churches, which was part of its charm and tourist-trap ability. One of the churches closed down thirty years ago, and the owner sold to someone who promised to keep the exterior and the stain glass and paintings on the inside, if he was allowed to convert the inside into an ice skating rink.

            Ice Cathedral, according to Stiles’ father, had been pretty popular for the first few years of its life. Tourists loved having something familiar to do, and the residents of Tarczyn now had a new hobby to embrace.

            The popularity wore off after that. They still managed to stay in business, tourists loving the idea of a converted church, but other than Stiles and the friends he’d made in his first few years of skating, many of the locals had gotten over the craze.

            Speaking of the friends he’d made.

            Stiles pulled open the tall church doors and walked into the front. Normally the doors were kept open, because right inside were a second set of glass doors that kept the cold out from those entering just to look at the church. They were technically closed right now, though Stiles knew someone would still be in there.

            Pushing open the glass doors, Stiles shuffled in and flew his eyes around the room. The place hadn’t changed at all.

            “Sorry,” a voice from behind the counter called back to Stiles, and his eyes snapped over to them. The woman had her back to Stiles as she was placing some rentable skates onto a shelf off to her left.

            “Sorry, Lydia,” Stiles apologized, trying on his most innocent expression.

            Lydia froze, her body going rigid, before she slowly turned around to face him. They stared at each other for a beat, and then a grin grew across her face.

            “Stiles Stilinski,” she purred. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

            Stiles felt himself relax immediately. He leaned over the counter and pulled Lydia into a hug. “Lydia Martin. It’s good to see you.”

            Lydia pulled back from the hug first, and her eyes fell on the bag slung over Stiles’ shoulder. “You want to skate, don’t you?”

            Stiles nodded, no use in denying it. “Yeah.”

            Lydia grinned. “Well, I’m certainly never going to stop you. Go ahead in. I’ll meet you in a second, let me just finish up back here. Then we can catch up.”

            Stiles nodded at her, shooting her a grateful smile, before heading over to the benches to put on his skates. When he pulled them out of his bag, he caressed his fingers over the sheathed blades. He could almost feel the rush of skates against ice from just admiring them. It had been too many days, weeks, since he was last able to skate, or to find the will to skate again.

            But he knew exactly what he wanted to skate. He couldn’t wait to show Lydia.

            Stiles had met Lydia when he was just six years old, Lydia an adorable eight-year-old who could tell the talent and drive that Stiles had for skating. She attached herself to him, teaching him all that she knew. Lydia took classes at Ice Cathedral, but Stiles was too young yet, so she would train him afterwards, helping him to prepare for when he was old enough to begin classes.

            Of course, then there was Jackson Whittemore, a snooty brat who’d recently moved to Tarczyn with his family from England when his father got a job in Warsaw. He lived to torture Stiles and suck up to Lydia, who was technically not a Polish native either. She had lived in Poland for as long as she could recall, but was a dual citizen of Poland and Slovenia, where she had been born. She didn’t like to talk about her family, so Stiles didn’t know much, but apparently, a divorce early after her birth was the reason she no longer lived in her birth country.

            Jackson made fun of Stiles for his lisped Polish accent when he tried to make a comeback at Jackson in his progressing English, but Lydia kept him in line. Once Jackson knew Polish, the bullying and teasing slowed down considerably, Jackson then understanding how difficult being bilingual really was. But Stiles had to admit, having Jackson around in his younger years was why he was able to learn English. It really helped him later in life when going to national and international skating competitions. Poland wasn’t a large skating country, so the international competitions were always critical for his skating career. Making a good impression was vital. English was a part of that, unfortunately.

            Lydia had been the person who introduced Stiles to Derek Hale. After class one day when Stiles was eleven years old, Stiles, Lydia, and Jackson had been crowded around the small television in the waiting area outside of the rink, watching the Grand Prix Final.

            “That’s Derek Hale,” Lydia had whispered when said boy had skated onto the ice and onto the screen. “He’s Ireland’s first international skater. He came in seventh in the Junior Grand Prix last year, and that was his first international competition! And he already made it to the Grand Prix! He’s amazing!”

            “Not that amazing,” Jackson grumbled, but they both ignored him as they kept their eyes on the television, captivated.

            Stiles stared in awe at the flickering screen, the cable connection not the greatest thing, but even through that Stiles could see the determination on the fifteen-year-old’s face. His outfit was skin-tight, black, material appearing like leather, with sequins dotted along the shoulders and spilled down his arms. Derek’s hair was styled up in spikes, glitter sprinkled through the strands. He skated with such confidence, performing a quadruple flip perfectly in the first half of the free skate program. Stiles felt his breath hitch. He wanted to be just like him.

            Stiles came to idolize Derek Hale. Even when Derek fell off of the radar for a few years, following the death of his family, Stiles would watch the tapes of his old competitions and try to reenact his routines down to the second. Lydia learned with him, Jackson instructing them from the sidelines. The older boy tried to appear as though he didn’t care, but he came to all of their practices to watch and help out. Stiles couldn’t quite consider them friends at the time, due to their rocky start, but they tolerated each other. Which was all that Lydia wanted.

            It wasn’t until years later, when Stiles had moved to Detroit and he was dabbling with creating his own routine, that he realized that he’d perhaps used the influence of Derek Hale as a pick-me-up following his mother’s passing when he was ten. Her death had hit him hard, so he’d thrown himself into skating the same way that his father had thrown himself into his work. Seeing Derek Hale, watching him, and admiring his strength when he came back even better after the tragedy of his family, it gave Stiles hope that someday he could compete on the same stage as him.

            But when Stiles finally did, he fell.

            Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Stiles found himself on the ice, phone in hand. He queued up his music, hands shaking a little as he clicked on the single-song playlist he’d had on repeat for too long.

            Lydia stood outside of the rink on the other side of the boards, watching him with interest. Stiles skated over to her, the glide of his skates across the ice feeling like freedom.

            Stiles propped his phone up onto the edge of the boards in front of Lydia and shucked off his red hoodie, draping it over the boards, next to his phone. He’d dressed in his most comfortable outfit, his favorite blue shirt and matching black and blue pants. His fingers hovered over the play button on his phone.

            Lydia cocked her head to the side. She must have been confused. Stiles normally wasn’t this quiet of a person. But the last year after his first (and maybe only, he said to himself) Grand Prix Final, he’d changed. He wasn’t as confident, and he was more controlled with himself. This was a Stiles Lydia had never encountered before.

            “I want to show you something,” Stiles finally said, looking Lydia in the eye. “I’ve been working on it, ever since…” he dragged off.

            Lydia nodded in understanding. Stiles hit the play button before skating to the center of the ice. His left foot he dragged behind, toe pick pressed against the ice. He ducked his head to his chin. His arms relaxed at his sides.

            He faintly heard Lydia gasp. “Wait. This is —”

            The music began, and Stiles fell into the routine.

            Lydia and Stiles began recreating Derek’s routines over a decade ago, and it had been a while since Stiles had done it. But the act of practicing had come back to him as easily as breathing. After watching Derek perform _Stay Close to Me_ as his free skate program at the Grand Prix Final, Stiles knew he had to recreate it.

            _Derek is skating this tonight, in the World Championship_ , Stiles thought to himself as he raced across the ice, executing the first quad of the program, a quadruple Lutz. _I’m sure he’s going to do a flawless performance, but I will do my best to do justice to his choreography._

            Stiles faced Lydia, his only deviation from Derek’s carefully choreographed program, and grinned at the look of surprise on her face. He even thought he saw some tears welling up in her eyes, shattering the calm façade she usually wore. He extended an arm towards her, silently urging her to pay attention as he transitioned back into the performance, readying himself for a combination jump of a quadruple toe loop, followed by a triple.

            Only when Stiles was this far recessed into his own thoughts, thinking only of skating freely, was he able to properly execute these jumps. Derek had been able to do them ever since he started competing internationally, but Stiles had only gotten them down recently, and only in practice. Never in competitions had he pulled off a quadruple Lutz before.

            Stiles imagined Derek in his mind’s eye, seeing him performing this program right in front of him, stealing his breath away. When Derek glided, so did he. When Derek fell into a flat sit spin, so did he. Sweat pooled on his brow; this was a very intensive program. But that was what made it so spectacular. What made it a Derek Hale Performance.

            Stiles couldn’t even hear the music anymore, just the sound of his skates scraping at the ice underneath his feet and the pounding of his heart in his ears. The words being sung melted away, and all Stiles could see was him and Derek skating, dancing, together on the ice, almost as if they were becoming one.

            _Quadruple Lutz, quadruple flip, lunge, camel spin, arabesque, flying sit spin, Besti squat, quadruple Salchow, triple Lutz, triple flip, quadruple toe loop, triple toe loop, camel spin, flying spin,_ _Charlotte spin, death drop, scratch spin_ … Stiles knew them all by heart.

            Out of the spin, Stiles flung his arms out, turned, then brought them back in to cross over his shoulders, elbows out, halting his skates and raising his chin up high as the program came to a close.

            The rink was silent. The music had stopped. Stiles panted, trying to catch his breath, He could feel sweat rolling down his face. The adrenaline of performing such a program was racing through his veins, and he felt wide awake now.

            Sudden clapping startled Stiles. He had forgotten anyone else was there with him.

            Lydia looked like an emotional wreck, like she always got when watching skating competitions. “That was amazing!” she screeched, almost lunging over the boards to drag Stiles close to her. “That was a perfect copy of Derek!”

            Once he was within reach, Lydia grabbed onto his shoulders and squeezed them once, tightly, a mock hug. She had quite the grip.

            Stiles chuckled at her enthusiasm, wiggling out of her grip to shrug his hoodie back on. He was now covered in sweat and it was beginning to cool, so he felt chilly. He locked his phone as well.

            Lydia tilted her head to the left, eyes narrowed slightly as she analyzed him. After a long time away from her piercing green gaze, Stiles didn’t have the same defenses up that’s he’d built after years of knowing her. Her eyes penetrated him, and he shuddered.

            “I’m happy, Stiles, that…” she trailed off, obviously trying to find the right words she wanted to say. “I thought you would be more depressed. I’m glad you’re still motivated,” was what she eventually settled on.

            Stiles ducked his head and wiped his sleeve across his chin, collecting the sweat that had pooled there. “I was,” he admitted, catching Lydia’s eye. “At first. But the more I thought about it and the longer I stayed away, I realized that my love for skating wasn’t diminished by my losses. So, I went back to my roots. _Our_ roots,” he amended, laughing softly. “I wanted to feel inspired again, so I went back to Derek.”

            Lydia huffed out a short breath, mouth pursed in a flat line, but Stiles could still see the shimmering of unshed tears in her eyes. She was proud of him. Her validation meant a lot to him.

            “Oh!”

            A head popped up from behind the boards next to Lydia, the bright blonde hair giving away its owner before Stiles could even see the trademark Martin green eyes.

            “Natalie,” Lydia cooed at her six-year-old. “When did you get here?”

            “I wanted to see Stiles!” Natalie cried, tucking her chin over the edge of the boards.

            “It’s been a while,” Stiles commented, smiling down at Natalie. “Last time I saw you in person you were just a baby.”

            “Is it true you’re retiring?!” Natalie burst out with, startling Stiles. “What about your weight? You’re bigger than during the Grand Prix! Do you have a girlfriend?!”

            Stiles stared at the overly excited girl in surprise as she jumped up and down, spewing out her questions. She reminded Stiles of himself when he was younger: hyperactive.

            The familiar sound of blades across ice distracted Stiles, and before he could turn to see who the other skater was, a hand came down on his back harshly, and Stiles bent in pain as the slap reverberated up his spine.

            “Your number one fan, Natalie is,” Jackson’s mixed-accented voice declared as he moved into Stiles’ swimming view. Stiles blinked to clear his vision, ignoring the pain, as he straightened to look Jackson in the eye. Jackson smirked. “Welcome back.”

            Stiles matched his smirk, always trying to one-up Jackson (or, at least, never let him be on top). “Jackson.” His voice dripped with pretend malice.

            Jackson’s expression softened as Natalie reached out a hand for her father. He reached over the boards and hoisted her up and over, setting her gently onto the ice in front of him. He held her shoulders securely, to make sure she didn’t slip and fall. Natalie was clutching to her chest a cell phone that had a familiar face on its cover: Derek Hale’s. That girl was just like her mother.

            “That was a great performance,” the blond man admitted, his daughter nodding aggressively to back up his claim. “We’re all glad you’re going to continue to skate. Come by at any time. The Whittemore family has your back.”

            Lydia smiled at Stiles from over her husband’s shoulder. Stiles felt the tension in his shoulders leak out, and he was able to relax for the first time since getting on the plane in America.

            “Thank you,” he responded truthfully.

            Stiles stared down at his feet, concentrating on the way his skates cut across the ice as he decided to cool down with some laps around the rink. Pulling off a Derek Hale routine was never easy, and he had not properly warmed up ahead of time. He needed to be more careful with his body.

            Stiles had made up his mind. He wanted to continue skating. He was not ready to retire. There was still something in him that was yet to be unleashed. He just hoped he could find it on his own. At the moment, he was coach-less, and it wasn’t like there was anyone in Tarczyn who coached nationally-ranked figure skaters.

            Lydia would be always willing to help, Stiles knew. But she had a full-time job, now that she and Jackson had taken over running Ice Cathedral. And as much as she loved skating, she was not a coach or teacher in any way.

            Stiles released a heavy sigh, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as he let himself glide in lazy circles around the ice. For now, he was on his own.

***

            The first step in putting himself back into competition mode was getting into shape. Stiles hadn’t been very good these past few months in regularly going to the gym, and rather eating his feelings.

            So Stiles took to running again in the mornings. He would walk with his father to work, walk over there to bring him lunch, and occasionally walk with him home, if he wasn’t exhausted from the rest of the daily workouts.

            Forcing his body back into shape wouldn’t be easy, especially without the proper motivation of a screaming coach. Deaton had known just what to say to get Stiles back onto his feet and continue his pushups or sit-ups. Their relationship hadn’t always been like that, of course, especially when Stiles was first starting out in university. But after five years, they had come to really know each other well.

            It had also helped having friends to motivate him as well. Lydia and Jackson were great, and Natalie was the cutest cheerleader that Stiles could ever have. But it just wasn’t the same without the innate feeling of competitiveness that fostered between skaters. Stiles missed Scott, a lot. He knew Scott was continuing under Deaton’s tutelage, staying in his home country. Deaton and Scott got on scarily well, and Stiles knew that his best friend had found his match made in coach heaven.

            Stiles resisted the urge to FaceTime Scott. With the eight-plus hour time difference between them, it was difficult to find the time to talk. But he tossed out a few text messages throughout the day, knowing that Scott would most likely respond within a day or two. Scott was much more prolific on Instagram than anywhere else, but Stiles was used to that. He’d take his updates on his best friend from any outlet.

            When Stiles wasn’t getting himself into shape physically, he was mentally preparing himself. He spent many hours every day watching video after video of skaters from over the years. He studied their movements, analyzed all of their slip-ups, and made notes on the routines. He would then take what he learned to Ice Cathedral to put into practice. Sometimes there would be other people there, but Stiles tried to schedule his day so that he was able to skate mostly on his own, without the worry of on-lookers. There was less of a chance that any of the tourists that stopped in would recognize him, but all of the locals seemed to have memorized his face. He was Poland’s champion. And Poland’s failure.

            Now that he was back home, Stiles could finally catch up with Lydia and Jackson, however, and that was something he’d been missing in his life. Since he’d gotten back less than a week ago, he’d already had dinner at their place three times. Natalie had insisted on sitting next to him, talking his ear off about ice skating. Knowing her parents, Stiles was sure that if Natalie wanted to skate professionally, she would quickly rise to the top. With her mother’s talent combined with her father’s confidence (read: ego), Natalie could become one of the top female skaters in the country.

            She seemed a lot more interested in Stiles at this point in time however. And she was especially interested in hearing about Derek Hale, and how it felt to skate with him.

            When Natalie asked that during dinner one evening, Lydia and Jackson had looked at him in interest. Clearly, they were curious to hear his feelings on the matter.

            Stiles chuckled duly, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Well…” he trailed off. “Intimidating. But I was also so worried about myself and my father that I barely remembered he was one of the people I was competing against. I don’t even think I said a single word to him the entire time I was there.”

            Stiles purposefully didn’t tell them about the almost-conversation following his disastrous performance in the Final.

            Stiles had been heading out of the Doug Mitchell Thunderbird Sports Centre in Vancouver where the Finals had been held last year, purposefully ignoring Deaton as he trailed behind him, going on about how they were going to improve things, for next year. Stiles hadn’t even wanted to listen, his mind too wrapped up around the call he’d received a few days ago. His father had had a mild heart attack. He was fine, the doctors assured him. They kept him overnight for observation but then sent him home with a relatively clean bill of health, and a strong warning to lay off the fatty foods. Part of Stiles’ anxiety over the competition had stemmed from that news. The three days of competition had made him reevaluate his choices. And after seeing his performance, he was not thinking very positively. After that brief call with his dad in the bathroom and subsequent panic attack, Stiles was just exhausted and wanted to forget about everything. He’d have to be presentable for the celebration banquet the next day, but for now he could turn himself off for the night.

            A gruff voice speaking a language that Stiles had not really heard spoken before (which was surprising, considering how many different languages you come into contact with, competing internationally) caught his attention. He lifted his gaze up from the floor and towards the direction of the voice. His eyes widened when he realized the man speaking was Derek Hale. He must have been speaking Gaelic, which was why the language was not one he had encountered before. Derek was one of the few Irish skaters, and the majority of Ireland spoke English so it was not heard hardly at all.

            Derek was on the phone, eyebrows drawn together in a way that made him look slightly constipated, jaw tight as he spoke. He appeared to navigate the language easily, no fumbles in his speech. Stiles stared at him as Derek’s face flickered with emotion, a tiny smile breaking out across his usually stoic face. Stiles wondered who he was talking to.

            Derek glanced up, caught his eye, and Stiles’ breath hitched in his throat.

            Without breaking eye contact, Derek murmured something into the phone. It still sounded like he was speaking in Gaelic. The only word he could pick up on was ‘me’, in English. “Grá duit, freisin[ii],” Derek said, voice soft and quiet, and Stiles didn’t have to know Gaelic to guess that he was signing off the call to someone he was close to.

            Stiles swallowed thickly as Derek pressed his thumb against his phone screen, assumedly ending the call. His eyes were very bright, Stiles noticed. Sometimes they looked green, in photos. But right now, they looked like a startling gray.

            “Do you want a photo, or something?” Derek asked. Even with his thick Irish accent, Stiles could understand his English perfectly clearly. His face flushed in embarrassment at having been caught, but also because Derek clearly looked annoyed. The furrow of his dark brows suggested that Stiles was less than dirt to him. He knew, in reality, that Derek Hale was actually a rather nice person, always taking pictures with eager fans and being cordial and kind in interviews. But stuck under his intimidating stare, Stiles felt nothing but shame.

            Stiles could feel Deaton’s hand come down on his shoulder, and the touch was enough to snap him out of his thoughts. He snapped his agape jaw shut, shrugged off Deaton’s hand, and turned away.

            Deaton had called for him to come back, but Stiles was not about to embarrass himself any further. Especially not in front of his idol.

            He heard a soft huff of breath from behind him. Stiles tried not to overanalyze the small noise Derek made. Stiles had clutched his rolling sports bag containing his skates and outfit in his hand and walked out into the night, just wishing he could teleport himself back to the hotel and sleep for years.

            That was not a story he was going to be telling to _anybody_ , much less Natalie, a six-year-old who wouldn’t understand.

***

            That six-year-old, though. She was something else.

            Stiles woke up on the morning of a week into his return home to a barrage of texts from a slew of people. He panicked for a second, worrying that his father had gotten hurt at work or something else horrible had happened. But then he remembered that his father had the day off. He could smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen.

            Okay, so not his father. What then?

            Three missed calls from Jackson of all people was what really caught his attention. And when the man called a fourth time not a second later, he immediately picked up.

            “Jackson?” Stiles inquired, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “What’s going on?”

            “Stiles…” Jackson sounded contrite. “I’m really sorry. Lydia and I immediately took it down, but by now it’s been shared everywhere and there’s dozens of copies floating around on YouTube.”

            Stiles sat up and put his phone on speaker so that he could flip through all of the mixed text messages. What he read took him only three seconds to respond to.

            “Jackson what the fuck?!” he screeched. Something clattered to the floor in the kitchen, and a call from his worried father filtered through the door.

            Stiles stared in horror down at his phone, at the link to a video titled “Mścisław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski Performs Derek Hale’s ‘Stay Close to Me’ Routine FAIL”.

            Jackson’s tinny voice continued to flow in and out of the phone, but Stiles couldn’t process either English or Polish at the moment. His hands started shaking. There was a knock at his bedroom door, his father’s concerned voice.

            Stiles couldn’t breathe.

            At some point, Stiles ended the phone call and had pressed play on the video. The footage was shaky, done by unsteady hands. Hands of a six-year-old.

            “How did she even know how to put that anywhere?!” Stiles asked himself as he threw his phone across the room. It hit the closet door with a loud thump.

            That seemed to be the last straw for Stiles’ father who burst into the room then and up to Stiles. “Stiles, what the hell is wrong?!”

            Stiles just kept shaking his head, muttering to himself. He flew a hand out towards his phone. His father gave him a look, but complied and fetched it. The video was still playing. The audio was pretty shit, since he’d been playing the song on his phone to skate along with, so the sound of his blades against the ice pretty much covered up the music. But there was no mistaking what he was doing in that video.

            Stiles buried his face into his hands, curled his knees up to his chest, and willed the bed sheets to swallow him whole.

            The only sounds in the room where the muffled noises of the video as his father covered up the speaker with his hands as he held the phone to watch it, and Stiles’ labored breathing as he attempted to stave off a panic attack.

            Finally, three minutes and forty-five seconds of torture later, his father paused the video, and Stiles found his breath. The bed shifted, creaking with the weight of his father as he took a seat next to his son. A warm hand came down on his shoulder, and his phone was pressed back against his slack hands.

            “It’s going to be alright, son. Your skating was as amazing as ever.”

            Stiles took in a shaky breath. “I guess Natalie wanted to show me off,” he said as an explanation. “Lydia and Jackson already apologized. I’m not upset at them, or Natalie. She’s just a kid. It’s just…” He let out a loud groan and flopped face-first into his pillows. He mumbled into the fabric, “It’s just so embarrassing! Me? Trying to imitate Derek? What was I even thinking?”

            His father’s hand was a nice comfort as he rubbed Stiles’ back. “You used to do that all the time with Lydia, when you two were kids,” his father reminded him gently.

            Stiles said nothing, the reminder unnecessary.

            His father took a deep breath, seemingly working up to something, so Stiles turned his head so that half of his face was exposed to air once again, squinting over at his father. “What?” he prodded when the older man continued to stay silent.

            “You know, I watched him perform that. At the World Championships. And it was perfect, as everyone expected it to be. But if I’m honest, the program wasn’t quite suited to Derek.” His father poked at the dimmed screen of Stiles’ phone, the light touch bringing it back to life. “I think you actually brought something to it that he couldn’t. Now I don’t know what that is, you know I’m still not an expert on these types of things. But objectively speaking, I enjoyed watching you skate it more than I liked watching Derek.” Stiles’ father threw his arm out, gesturing to the poster on the wall next to Stiles’ closet.

            That was Stiles’ favorite poster of Derek that he had. It was from Derek’s Grand Prix Final short program back in 2016, his rose red outfit with a blue sash depicting him like a prince, a circlet bobby-pinned into his hair, declaring him royal. He couldn’t help but smile when he looked at that poster. The pure confidence that Derek Hale always carried himself with had inspired Stiles as he was growing up, and this poster depicted that perfectly.

            “You’re a dad, you have to say that,” Stiles finally responded, ever the cliché son.

            His father laughed, slapped him on the back, and told him that breakfast was ready whenever he was ready to eat.

            His father left then, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

            Stiles sat up, rubbing the pillow creases off of his face as he took his phone in hand once again. The paused video was still pulled up, a screenshot of Stiles mid-pant as he finished the ending pose. To Stiles, he looked like a sweaty out-of-shape mess. He couldn’t understand how anyone could see anything other than that.

            FAIL, indeed.

***

            When Derek got back to his and Cora’s apartment after his run, towel wrapped around his shoulders as he patted his face dry, he found his sister laughing hysterically, headphones bracketing her ears as she played something on her phone.

            Derek ached an eyebrow at her as he passed by. A hand shot out and snagged the edge of his shirt, and Derek stumbled, almost toppling over the couch and onto Cora. He managed to steady himself on the back of the couch, but he glared at his sister anyway.

            “What?” he asked, voice gruff. “I want to shower.”

            Cora scrunched up her nose. She snatched her hand back and made a dramatic show of wiping it off on the couch cushions. “Ew. Gross, you stink. Fine, go take your shower. But after that you _have_ to watch this video I found. This guy copied your routine.”

            Derek rolled his eyes as he walked over to the kitchen area, snagging a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water before downing the whole thing in three large gulps. As he turned to fill it back up, he responded, “So? People skate my routines all the time.”

            Cora scoffed. Derek turned back to her, water glass in hand. His eyebrows arched, asking a silent question as to why he should care this time.

            Cora wiggled her phone back and forth, the headphone cord whipping all over the place. It smacked against her nose, and Derek snorted a laugh. Even Cora’s glare didn’t diminish his smirk.

            “Whatever. I just thought you might be interested, ‘cause it’s not just some rando. It’s another figure skater. Polish, I think.”

            Derek froze, glass halfway to his mouth. He set it down hard onto the counter before rushing over to see what Cora was talking about. His heart leapt in his chest, and he tried not to show it outwardly. Could it be…?

            But Cora was too fast for him, clutching her phone against her chest protectively and curling into herself so that Derek couldn’t get to it. “No! Go shower! I’ll show you after.”

            Derek released her, giving up after half a minute of wrestling for it, and stepped back. Cora gave him a weary look as she uncurled from her protective position.

            “You stink,” she repeated with a hiss. “Go. I’ll show you later, _if_ ,” she emphasized the word, “you tell me why you suddenly are curious.”

            Derek had become great at lying over the years, to all different people: his coaches, reporters, his family. So it was nothing to say to Cora in a nonchalant tone, “It’s not often that other skaters will own-up to performing others’ work,” meanwhile his heart was pounding out a staccato in his chest.

            Cora seemed to buy it, at least for now. She nodded, waved her hand to shoo him away, before covering her ears with her headphones again. Derek quickly finished his glass of water before hastening to take a shower. He stared at himself in the mirror once he finished and willed his cheeks to stay their normal, pale color. Now that he wasn’t competing at the moment, he allowed his scruff to grow out, so that covered up most of the blush. But the tips of his ears were always trying to call him out, so he glared at them as well.

            Not wanting to offend his sister anymore, he changed into comfortable lounge clothes before going back into the living room. Cora had abandoned the headphones and was now texting someone. Derek arched his eyebrow, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at her. He was not feeling quite patient at the moment.

            The corner of Cora’s lips twitched, and Derek knew she was doing it on purpose to get back at him for not giving her a straight answer.

            Derek sighed heavily and gave up. Fuck it, he’d just find it on his own. He didn’t think it would take very long to find on the internet.

            Turning back to his room, he ignored Cora’s indignant squawk, and closed his door behind him. Once settled onto his bed, Derek pulled his phone off of its charging dock and opened up YouTube.

            Hesitating only slightly, Derek typed into the search bar ‘Stilinski skate Derek Hale routine’.

            The first five videos that popped up all had varying titles, some in all capital letters, some with an overabundance of exclamation points. But the icons for the videos all looked the same, so Derek just clicked on the first one titled “(Mścisław Stilinski) Tried to Skate Derek’s FS Program (Stay Close to Me)”.

            Heart pounding in his chest, Derek leaned back into his pillows as he tilted his phone screen to expand the video. The footage started out shaky, taken by unskilled hands. But then it settled onto something. Derek recognized the slightly out of focus form of Stilinski as he glided to center ice. The opening pose was very familiar. When Stilinski raised his head as soon as the music began, Derek felt his heart stop.

            Those striking whisky eyes, that intense gaze. Derek knew it well. The image of those eyes trained on him had been running through his head for the last four months, almost to the day. Derek shuddered at the memory.

            Whoever uploaded the video spliced in a clean version of _Stay Close to Me_ , because the song replaced the familiar noises of blades hitting the ice as Derek watched Stilinski gather up some speed to execute an almost flawless quad. Though Derek couldn’t hear it, he imagined his own extra sounds, like the heavy puffs of breath spilling out of Stilinski’s mouth.

            He knew that mouth as well as he knew those eyes. Plush, slightly swollen pink lips wrapped around a bottle, brushing against long steady fingers that were wrapped around the neck.

            Derek forced himself to concentrate on the video, not wanting to miss a second of this silent serenade due to haunting memories.

            Stilinski had skated first in the last Grand Prix Final, so Derek as well as the rest of the skaters watched him from behind the boards, or from the television screens in the back room. Derek had kept his face void of emotion, even as he watched Stilinski fall again, and then again, a second time. He got up both times, but it was obvious his concentration had been broken at the start, if it had even existed at all. When his short program had ended, Stilinski’s hands had been shaking, and Derek could even see it on the grainy televisions.

            But _this_. This was nothing like that short program at all. Perhaps some of it could be accredited to Derek himself for choreographing the program, but the skill…That was all Stilinski. And he looked like a champion, confident in his ability to execute a perfect performance.

            For a second, Derek felt a little envious. Stilinski almost performed it better than he did.

            Besides the person recording, someone else behind the boards applauded and said something, though the sound was muffled slightly, probably by a hand over the microphone.

            The video shook, the recorder moving the lens around to capture Stilinski skating back to the boards, and closer to the camera. There was a small, satisfied smile on Stilinski’s face that was dotted with sweat. Someone reached out and settled their hands onto Stilinski’s shoulders, but that was all the video showed of them.

            A soft voice trickling through the speaker shocked Derek, a woman speaking Polish that he could not understand. He only could pick up on one word, _Stiles_ , which was the nickname Stilinski went by professionally.

            Then, with three seconds left, Derek heard Stilinski’s cut-off response, one he still could not decipher. Derek clung onto those last few seconds, fingers curling around his phone in a tight grip. His plastic phone case (a gag gift from Cora, however he used it to spite her silently anyway) that resembled the outfit he had worn in his free skate program during his most recent Grand Prix Final gold medal win creaked in response.

            That voice. For as long as he would live, Derek did not think the cadence of Stilinski’s voice would ever disappear from his consciousness. He spoke so smoothly in his native tongue, even when intoxicated. His accented English was much different than Derek’s, having a softer tone to it overall, and a harder emphasis on the ‘r’s in his speech.

            His name on Stilinski’s tongue had sounded like a prayer. Or, perhaps the complete opposite, a word only to be spoken in the most intimate of relations.

            _“Be my coach, Der-ek!”_

            Derek’s resolve shattered. That was that, then.

            Derek abandoned his phone on his bed, breaking out of his room suddenly, door banging against the wall at the force of his push. The noise startled Cora, who flailed off of the couch and hit the floor suddenly.

            Her glare did nothing to slow Derek down as he reached for the kitchen table and snagged his laptop. He snapped it open, quickly, and let his fingers fly over the keyboard.

            “Cad é an ifreann?[iii]” Cora spat, the fall apparently having reverted her to speaking a different language. “Derek?!”

            “There’s something…” Derek paused, hands hovering over his keyboard. He cast his gaze over to his bewildered sister. He felt a little lost, but also a little excited.

            It had been a long time since something had excited him like this.

            “Something?” Cora asked when Derek said nothing else to his statement.

            Derek looked down at his computer screen, a travel site open to a two-ticket deal flying through Warsaw, Poland.

            “I think I’m going to take a break. Officially.”

            Cora sat up suddenly and then jumped to her feet. “Wait, what? From skating? I know you were toying with the idea but…” She seemed to flounder for words. “I didn’t think you wanted to. And this decision seems so sudden. A break, are you sure?”

            Derek eyes drifted, and he smirked softly. “Well, half of a break.”

            Cora still looked so utterly confused, so Derek decided to put the poor girl out of her misery.

            “What do you think about coming with me to Poland?”

***

            “Stiles! Your phone!”

            Stiles snapped his head up from the ice where he had been carefully watching his footwork to look at Lydia. She was standing just inside of the rink, by the entrance doors. His cell phone was in her hands and she was waving it back and forth a little.

            Stiles sighed heavily, hating being interrupted and having his concentration shattered, but he knew Lydia wouldn’t call him off the ice unless he was getting an important notification. He’d left the device with Lydia out front, to keep it from distracting him.

            As he stepped off of the ice, he reached for his blade covers and slipped them on, balancing himself one-handed against the boards with practiced ease. While half bent over slipping them on, he asked, “Did I get a call?”

            Lydia nodded. “Yeah, your dad called. I picked it up when I saw it was him, and he said to come get you and have you call him back as soon as possible.”

            Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion. “Did he say anything about why he was calling?” Lydia shook her head. “Any guesses?”

            Lydia shook her head again. “He didn’t sound like he was worried about anything, so it’s probably nothing super serious, just a timely matter.”

            “Alright,” Stiles accepted the explanation, allowing Lydia’s calm tone to quell his anxiety. He hated getting so hyped up over something as small as a phone call. But ever since his dad’s heart attack, he’d been on high alert. He hoped this facet of his anxiety would fade soon. He took the phone from Lydia’s outstretched hand, thanked her, and followed her with his eyes as she left him alone in the rink.

            Stiles took a seat on one of the benches against the wall and stared at the boards, noted which advertisements were fading and which had been replaced since he went off to school. He raised the phone to his ear after clicking on his father’s contact information and listened to the call ring out three times before it was picked up.

            “Stiles?”

            Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s me. Lydia said you needed to talk. Is something wrong?”

            His father was silent for a few seconds, and the lack of an immediate negative response made Stiles feel like his blood had gone cold.

            “Dad?” he prompted when still nothing was said.

            “I can’t say this is a good thing, but uh…” there was a throat cleared. “There’s a man here at the station who is here for you. Said he knew I worked as the community guard so I was his go-to to find you. But…”

            Stiles narrowed his eyes, wracking his brain to think of who he’d talked to recently about his father’s job, or if anyone had said they were coming to visit. But nothing came to mind.

            “The guy’s got a girl with him too. A sister, I assume. Had to get Parrish to translate for me, their English is very harsh I could only understand about every third word. Maybe Irish?”

            That cold feeling seeped from his blood into his bones. “Irish?” Stiles stuttered.

            “Yeah,” his father responded, unaware of his son’s rising freak-out. “Seems familiar, too. Never met him, though. A skating friend of yours?”

            Stiles couldn’t breathe. It made no sense, why would _he_ be _here_? What could he _possibly_ want with Stiles?

            His body tensed up. What if he got so offended at the video that he decided to confront Stiles himself? Stiles knew that the fear was irrational and that things like that never actually happened outside of television dramas, but still.

            “I’ll be right there, ten minutes,” Stiles promised once he managed to suck in a breath.

            As soon as he hung up the phone, he quickly started unlacing his skates and tossed them into his duffle bag before zipping it up and running out of the rink and into the front room. Shouting a farewell to Lydia, Stiles bolted through the open front doors and started towards the small station where his father worked.

            The office space where his father and Parrish, Tarczyn’s other community guard, worked out of was nearby their house, but in the opposite direction of Ice Cathedral, so Stiles sprinted past their house on his way there, resisting the urge to run in and make himself look more presentable, and not like a sweaty pig. He’d been at the rink all day, and in fact he probably should have thought about heading home, so perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

            _No_ , Stiles thought as he panted, running around a corner, the station in his sights. _Not a blessing. A curse._

            Leaning casually against the handrail for the ramp, adjacent to the steps of the building, stood Derek Hale. Even though the sun was lowering in the sky, the man had sunglasses perched across his face, leather jacket over his broad shoulders accentuating his “bad boy” aesthetic.

            Derek spotted him only a moment later, and he pushed himself off of the railing and slowly began to approach Stiles. He raised a hand and removed his sunglasses, flipping his hair out of his eyes with the movement. The setting sun against his back created a stunning sight. _What a beautiful way to die_ , Stiles thought as heat filled his cheeks.

            Derek’s eyes caught his, and Stiles knew he was done for.

            “Derek.” Stiles couldn’t help his voice from wobbling. “Why are you here?” Not since he was a child had Stiles last felt so awkward using his English.

            Derek’s lips twitched, flat mouth evolving into a smirk. “I decided to take you up on your offering.”

            “Offering?” Stiles sputtered. What offering? The video? Is that what he’s referring to?

            “To be your coach, of course,” Derek said casually, as if those words didn’t strike Stiles to the core, harsher than any physical blow could have.

            Stiles opened his mouth to retort and found he could produce no sound. Derek had stolen his voice right from his throat; with his words and his smirk combined, he was a lethal force.

            “You need a coach, right?” Derek prompted, closing in one step further. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, the sleeves bunching up slightly around his wrists, as if the arms of the jacket were a tad too long for him.

            The bag slung over Stiles’ shoulder suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand kilograms, so he let it drop to the ground, knowing his skates would probably be no worse for the wear. Derek’s eyes tracked the movement, but this his steady gaze was back. It almost looked like a challenge.

            “I don’t have one right now, no,” Stiles found his voice enough to counter back, surprised at the slightly snappish tone he used. He was talking to _Derek Hale_ , why was he so pissy?

            “Great, then we will start training tomorrow. I assume you have a rink out here that you frequent. We can use that as your home base. Good?”

            Stiles blinked. It almost sounded like Derek wasn’t giving him a choice here.

            “You seriously want to be my coach?” Stiles blurted out, eyes widening.

            Someone groaned from behind Derek, and Stiles turned to look behind the older man to see a woman who looked vaguely familiar. She sauntered up to them and draped an arm over Derek’s shoulders, looking like she was born to have the upper hand in their relationship despite the fact that her head barely came up to his shoulder.

            “Sorry about him,” she told Stiles, accent identical to Derek’s. “He has no tact. But he’s not lying, I assure you. He’s…” she stared at Derek, eyes narrowed, before continuing, “surprisingly driven to work with you.”

            Stiles wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an insult, but it stung a little none the less.

            Derek didn’t seem pleased at this woman’s actions or words, eyebrows lowered and eyes set in a harsh glare, jaw tight. However, he was gentle when he shoved her arm off from around his shoulders, rather than forceful.

            “Cora,” he hissed from between his teeth. “Tone.”

            Cora. That name… _Oh!_

            “You’re Derek’s sister!” Stiles exclaimed with his internal revelation, seeing the woman in a whole new light.

            At twenty-years-old, Cora de Burgh had already made a name for herself. Taking their father’s last name, fresh out of upper secondary school (or whatever they called it in Ireland) she started working at her father’s old company, quickly surpassing all of her uncles in skill, and was now one of the top leaders in the company. She had made international headlines. It wasn’t like she was _only_ Derek Hale’s little sister.

            Cora smirked, but unlike Derek’s, hers gave off an aura of malice and distrust. “So you’ve heard of me.”

            “Oh, Stiles knows all about you Hales.”

            The sound of his father’s voice, startled Stiles, and he watched as his dad’s broad hand clapped down on Derek’s shoulder, the other stretched out in an offering for a shake.

            “I cannot believe I didn’t recognize you immediately,” his father amended as Derek dutifully shook his hand.

            Stiles sputtered, feeling the heat of embarrassment enveloping his entire body. He didn’t even want to look at Cora now. “I do _not_ know everything about the Hales,” he argued.

            His father raised an eyebrow. “In early middle school, when they called it that, you did your Famous Family project on them. You found so many random facts while you were doing that project.” His father nodded his head towards Cora. “You would have been no more than three.”

            Acknowledging her presence seemed to cool Cora down, and her fierce expression softened. She nodded in agreement with Stiles’ father, then cast her eyes to the ground.

            When Stiles risked a glance over at Derek, his eyes seemed to be sparkling. “That’s interesting,” Derek hummed, eyes on Stiles before they moved back to Stiles’ father. “Sir, I plan to stay here for a while, to coach Stiles for this upcoming competition season. Do you know of any inns in town that have accommodations for long-term stay?”

            Stiles recognized the look on his father’s face, one of subtle wide-eyed confusion, and took pity on him. His father spoke English well enough, but he often said it got confusing in his head when he heard someone else speak it. In his line of work, he didn’t often need to use both languages, and when it was necessary, Parrish, who was fully bilingual, usually took over. Stiles translated what Derek had said, though he stuttered over the part where Derek so assuredly had said he was going to coach him. This all still sort of seemed like a dream.

            His father’s eyes softened with understanding, but glanced to Stiles to answer the question.

            “As far as I remember, because I don’t think Tarczyn has changed much since I was gone, we don’t have any inns here. Most of the tourists that come by only come for the day and leave in the evening, since Warsaw is so close by.”

            Stiles looked to his father, said an abridged version to him in Polish, asking if he was correct in his assessment, and his father nodded in agreement. “Yes, I’m sorry those accommodations aren’t available.”

            Derek lowered his head, mouth pursed in a thin line. Cora looked vaguely annoyed at the inconvenience. For the first time, Stiles noticed the car parked on the side of the road not far off from them. Through the semi-tinted window on the trunk, he could see that the back was full of luggage. _So Derek really had planned on staying._

            “However, you can stay with us.”

            Stiles’ eyes snapped open wide and he stared at his father incredulously.

            Derek and Cora looked equally surprised, and a little humbled. Cora was quick to recover, a grin bursting across her face, slightly feral, and she reached for Stiles’ father’s hand for a shake.

            “That would be fantastic, sir. You have the room?”

            “I, uh, we,” Stiles stuttered, “We have a guest room. And I suppose we could clean up the attic?” Stiles poised the question, more so for himself rather than anyone else.

            His father must have heard ‘attic’ and shook his head. “That will take a while to clean out, many things are up there,” his father murmured. What he didn’t say was that many of those things were his late wife’s.

            Though they couldn’t understand, Derek and Cora must have gotten the gist of what his father had said. “We can share the guest room,” Derek grunted out, eyes flicking over to his sister to see if she would object.

            “I won’t be staying the whole time, I do have a company to run. So that should be fine,” Cora added, though she looked less than pleased about it.

            For her sake, Stiles assured her, “I can start to clean up the attic. It’s due for a cleanse anyway.” Cora nodded in thanks to the gesture.

            Stiles couldn’t help but look back at Derek. It was as if he were a piece of metal and Derek a magnet. He just kept sucking him back in.

            Derek looked back at him, and his mouth twitched up for a second into a genuine smile. Stiles almost choked, heart stopping in his chest. He curled a hand into the material of his shirt, right over his heart. _What was this?_

            “Stiles,” his father commanded, and Stiles nodded, giving the siblings a ‘wait here’ gesture as he walked his father back into the office building.

            “So Derek Hale is really going to be your coach?” his father asked, sounding and looking much less composed than he had a minute ago. He looked flustered now, eyes wide.

            Stiles laughed, a harsh sound that came out of his throat unbridled. “I guess, yeah. I don’t know why now, why me, but…” he shrugged. “I’m not going to tell _Derek Hale_ ‘no’.”

            His father nodded, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Alright. You get them home safely, dress up the guest room, put fresh sheets on the bed. They must be exhausted, flying always knocks it out of you no matter how short the flight.”

            “Sure, Dad,” Stiles assured the man, laughing despite himself. And why not laugh, right? This situation was ridiculous. What even was his life anymore?

            Part of Stiles wondered if Derek and Cora would still be outside with their packed car full of luggage, or if it would have all disappeared while he was not looking, like a dream. But sure enough, the siblings were still there, Cora speaking into her phone in Gaelic and Derek taking in the surrounding area.

            Stiles clapped his hands and rubbed them together to force them to stop shaking. His anxiety had hit him suddenly, and he was not about to show that in front of this duo. The noise he made seemed to startle Derek slightly, the older man’s head snapping away from the forest of trees across the street and falling on him. Cora glanced up, barely giving him any sort of recognition, before she started walking towards the car, continuing her phone conversation.

            Stiles looked to Derek, who was watching him, an unreadable look on his face. “Shall we go?” Derek prompted, jerking his head in the direction of the car. “I’d like to get to the rink before the end of the day. Although…” Derek held something out towards Stiles, and Stiles realized that it was his abandoned duffle. “It appears that you’ve already been. Tomorrow morning, then. Early.”

            “Mmm,” Stiles hummed and nodded in agreement, eyes permanently wide open. He reached a trembling hand out and grabbed onto the bag, slinging it back over his shoulder. “I can direct you both home.”

            Derek nodded, then thrust his arm out in a ‘lead the way’ gesture. Stiles did, after a second of hesitation. He watched Cora slip into the back seat, car door clicking closed behind her, so he took the passenger seat. He settled his bag at his feet, strap pinched between his fingers as he toyed with it.

            Derek slid gracefully into the driver’s seat and put the keys into the ignition, starting up the engine. He reached with his left hand towards the side of the steering wheel, froze, then pulled it back to rest on the curved leather, right hand reaching out instead to put the car into drive, hand resting on the gear shift.

            “It will not be easy, getting used to driving on the right side,” Derek commented casually, ignorant to the way Stiles’ heart thought it might jump out through his throat if he dared to speak.

            He swallowed the organ down and managed to choke in an obviously unnatural way, “Not many of us drive. The locals here, at least. We mainly walk or take the bus.”

            “Ah,” Derek sighed, backing on to the road and successfully starting the trip on the correct side of the road. “Very interesting. I have lived in Dublin all my life. Many cars in the city, but public transportation is popular as well.”

            Stiles nodded, not sure what to say in response. He just didn’t want Derek to stop talking. Unfortunately, Derek seemed to be finished with that conversation, and the car lapsed into almost silence, save for Cora chattering on in the back seat. Stiles found it easy to tune her out, as he did not understand the language, though she sometimes uttered things in English as well. He wondered if Derek could tune her out just as easily.

            “Turn here, we’re just a little way down the road,” Stiles choked out a few minutes later, hand flying out to gesture to the aforementioned street. He was almost a second too late, too caught up in his anxious thoughts to remember he was supposed to be giving directions.

            Cora muttered something, her voice sounding angry, as they made the turn a little abruptly. But Derek didn’t even react, turning the wheel and making it onto the street easily enough. Though he did swerve a second later, correcting his chosen lane to the correct one. Stiles muffled a laugh at the mistake, and he could feel Derek’s eyes on him as he turned his cheek to the older man. Derek’s stare was intense.

            Stiles wondered if Derek was going to be a good coach. For years, Derek Hale had crafted his own choreographed routines base off of songs he found specifically, or had been written for his competitions. So he knew that area behind coaching, but the rest of it?

            Stiles was sure Derek was proficient in many things. Why was he even worrying about this? _Derek Hale_ wanted to coach _him_. He should take whatever coaching he could get, no matter how spontaneous or untrained.

            “Right there, um, is out house.”

            Derek turned into the driveway of the Stilinski home, and as he did, Cora finished her phone call, the tap of her nail against the glass screen aggressive. Stiles tried to be as polite as possible, opening the door for her and carrying her luggage inside and up to the guest room. He was the reason, after all, that Cora was here and not back home with her job and her friends. Stiles wasn’t entirely sure how close Derek and Cora were, but for her to follow him, if even for just the beginning to help him transition, they must mean a lot to each other. Stiles didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the relationship.

            Stiles left Derek and Cora in the kitchen, offering them use of the microwave or oven, to eat anything they wanted from the fridge. They would have to do a grocery run tomorrow, and purchase enough food for two more people. Stiles hoped the siblings would be covering their own food bills, because he was sure he and his father could not afford it.

            Stiles quickly refreshed the sheets in the guest room and wiped every surface down with a cleaning wipe, leaving the room smelling faintly like citrus. He piled pillows onto the bed until half of it disappeared, then shoved three of them into the closet on the top shelf, in case they were wanted later. He brought the last of the luggage into the bedroom, and sighed at the sight. Derek had not been half-assign this at all; he really had been planning to stay for a long while. It made Stiles’ heart flutter in his chest, and he rubbed the side of his neck, in an effort to slow his pulse.

            “Stilinski.”

            Stiles whipped around to find Derek lounging in the doorway. “Uh. Call me Stiles,” he said.

            That seemed to be the right thing to say, because Derek did that tiny twitch of a smile thing again, before his face reverted back to a blank stare. “Stiles, then. Thank you for accommodating us, this is very generous of you and your father.”

            Stiles snorted out a laugh, and then slapped a hand down over his mouth, horrified at the disgusting sound he’d just made. He could feel his face heating up; his face must have been entirely red.

            Derek raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest. He’d ditched the leather jacket at some point, and he was left in a soft white T-shirt that showed off the strength in his arms nicely.

            “I…I…” Stiles stuttered, “I should be thanking you,” he finally spat out. “You’re the one coaching me.”

            “Not for free,” Derek said, in a way that made Stiles think Derek was trying to be reassuring, but it only heightened Stiles’ embarrassment even further. “But you can pay me once the season is over and you win gold, alright?”

            Stiles breathed out in relief, but then he went rigid. “Gold?” he squeaked out. He had been _crushed_ in the Grand Prix Finals last year, coming in over a hundred points behind Derek, and in the National competition that followed, he’d placed in fourteenth, _ruining_ his standing for this season. How could Derek say such a thing so casually?

            Perhaps it was because the man skated like it was effortless, or natural. And because he had won gold and/or medaled more times than Stiles could count on one hand for the Grand Prix Final _alone_.

            “Yes,” Derek replied, simple as that.

            Stiles couldn’t hold back the scoff of incredulity. Derek narrowed his eyes at the noise and pushed off of the door frame, coming into the room and approaching Stiles.

            “Do you not have faith in my abilities as a coach?” Derek inquired, voice hard, like he was challenging Stiles.

            Stiles was ready to forfeit this challenge. “No!” he was quick to reassure. “No, I’m sure you are perf —perfectly good…” Stiles pursed his lips and turned away from Derek, distracting himself by finishing wiping down the bedside table for the third time.

            “Because if so, that would be fair,” Derek countered, making Stiles freeze in his movements.

            Stiles felt a presence right behind him, and when he turned Derek moved even further into his space. They were centimeters apart, and Stiles was so surprised at the closeness that he stumbled back, hit his knee against the bedside table, and tipped back against the wall for support.

            Derek paid no heed to his clumsiness, instead leaning ever further into Stiles’ space. “We have not forged any kind of bond of trust, so it would be fair of you not to trust me yet. I don’t trust you yet.”

            Stiles swallowed thickly. “Uh, yeah. I. I guess.”

            “I would like to get to know you, Stiles, so that we can have that kind of a relationship.” Stiles’ heart leapt at that ‘r’ word coming out of Derek’s mouth. “What kind of rink do you skate at?” Derek probed, head tilted to the side adorably, like a confused dog. “What do you do in your town? Do you have a girlfriend?” Stiles’ eyes widened.

            Derek was very close to him now. They were sharing the same air, maybe the same breaths. Derek’s left arm bracketed Stiles, pressed against the wall. The other came to rest gently on his chest, fingers a hair’s width away from his heart. Stiles wasn’t sure if he was even breathing anymore.

            Derek’s eyes looked stunning, this close up. Blues, greens, golds, and grays all swam in his gaze.

            “Before we start practice tomorrow, we should begin to answer some of these questions, and start to build up our relationship.”

            Was Derek even speaking anymore? Or was his voice just projected into Stiles’ head? Because Stiles could no longer look at the whole of Derek’s face to check, they were so close. The hand on his chest twitched, and Stiles released a shuddery breath.

            Suddenly, his phone began to ring, and Derek stepped back at the unfamiliar noise, looking as casual as he always did. Stiles felt like his entire body was on fire; flustered didn’t even begin to cover it.

            “Uh, ah, excuse me,” Stiles stuttered as he backed himself into the hallway, keeping his eyes on Derek almost subconsciously, phone halfway to his ear before he realized he hadn’t even seen who it was that was calling him, too desperate to escape whatever… _that_ was.

            “Stiles!” Lydia’s loud voice fizzed through the phone speaker, and Stiles winced. “I’m almost to your house, we need to talk. There’s a rumor going around that _Derek Hale is your new coach_?!”

            Stiles jogged to the living room, noting Cora who was sprawled causally over the couch, comfortable as ever, and opened the front door just as Lydia stepped onto the porch.

            Spotting her prey, Lydia ended the call. Her eyes were wide, hair wild and tossed up into a messy bun on the crown of her head. Though she looked haggard, she still gave of such an ethereal aura of royalty and beauty, and it was nothing for Stiles to step aside and let her in.

            “It’s all over the news in Ireland,” Lydia hissed, snagging onto his arm and dragging him away from the entrance way and towards the living area. “That he’s decided to take this season off to think about his future.”

            “I —” Stiles started, but found his tongue twisted. “Lydia, I can’t even begin to explain how confusing this all is to me.”

            “Stiles~!”

            The sing-songy voice came from Cora, who leaned over the back of the couch and smirked at him and Lydia. “It is rude to speak about people in a language they cannot understand.”

            Lydia’s jaw dropped.

            And of course, that was when Derek decided to make his entrance, his feet bare now as he padded into the kitchen. “Before practice tomorrow, Stiles, we will need to go shopping. Your food supply is abysmal, at best.”

            Stiles scowled at the words, but his face was still beet red from the interaction he’d had with Derek not even three minutes ago. “I will take care of it,” he promised, mumbling his words. He turned to look at Lydia, head ducked like a puppy that knew it was about to get scolded.

            “Stiles, is this seriously happening?!” Lydia shouted, ignoring Cora’s huff of irritation at her request for language equality being ignored. “He is _here_? In your house? Is he really going to be your coach?!”

            Stiles threw his arms up into the air and exclaimed, “I don’t know, I guess! This all happened less than an hour ago, Lyds, I haven’t had a chance to process it yet. And it’s honestly kind of making me freak out here! So if you would be so kind as to stop yelling at me so we could speaking about this as civil human beings, then I would love that!”

            “Fine!” Lydia shouted back, huffed in anger, and then turned to face Cora abruptly. “Lydia Martin Whittemore, a pleasure to meet you Miss de Burgh,” she crooned in her sweet English.

            Cora looked taken aback for a second, cheeks pinking ever so slightly at the kindness being shown. “Likewise, Miss Whittemore.”

            “So not an angry girlfriend, then?” Derek inquired, capturing all three of their attentions. Stiles felt his face heat up again.

            Lydia cocked her hip and gave World Figure Skating Champion Derek Hale a narrow-eyed look. “I am married. Nice to meet you, Derek Hale.”

            Stiles couldn’t help but smirk. Lydia was just as much of a fan of Derek as he was, and yet she found the courage to stand up to him like that. Her knees were trembling slightly, though, which gave her away only to Stiles.

            Derek shook Lydia’s hand, respect shining in his eyes. Stiles cleared his throat and added, “Lydia and her husband run Ice Cathedral, my home rink.”

            Derek’s eyes widened a pinch and he let out a soft, “Ahh,” and seemed to assess Lydia again. “Well, as I briefly discussed with Stiles, I would like to use…Ice Cathedral? You said? Ice Cathedral as our home base.”

            “I’m sure we can get that cleared with the higher-ups,” Lydia assured him. Her gaze then drifted back to Stiles. Her eyes widened just a pinch, a silent scream. Stiles pursed his lips and nodded minutely. He was screaming on the inside as well.

            Cora threw herself over the back of the couch, the noise startling all of them. She seemed to have a flair for the dramatics in real life, where as her brother showed them off more on the ice, keeping more reserved in any of the rest of his actions. “I’m hungry,” she said in lieu of an explanation, snagged her brother’s shirt sleeve as she passed him, and then dragged him into the kitchen. A second later, a whisper-shouted argument erupted, not that Stiles could tell what they were saying. He supposed it was karma, for doing the same to them earlier.

            “Well,” Lydia said with an incredulous laugh, watching the swinging kitchen door rock back and forth, “Natalie will certainly be ecstatic.”

            Stiles’ eyes widened. “You should bring her to the rink tomorrow, as a surprise. In fact, don’t tell anyone. I want to see the look on Jackson’s face when he finds out.”

            Lydia rolled her eyes, but Stiles could see a smile threatening to overcome her face. She acted like she was annoyed at Stiles and Jackson’s constant bickering, but she was more amused by it than anything, and Stiles knew.

            The kitchen went quiet, the sound of the microwave being turned on replacing the words. Lydia looked at Stiles, and her face went serious for a minute. “I read an article on my way here that was talking about all of this. Apparently, someone close to Derek confirmed that he watched your video, and it inspired him to come out here to coach you.”

            Stiles had not been prepared to hear those words. He choked on air and sputtered, trying to regain his balanced breathing. “I. I can’t believe some article, there has to be something else.”

            “Hey, don’t put yourself down like that,” Lydia chastised him, her voice gone soft. “You’re a great skater, Stiles. You have so much potential. I bet that’s what Derek saw, too.” She chuckled, patting his cheek with sharp flicks of her wrist that mildly stung like a harsh wind. “It’s actually kind of amazing, if you really think about it.”

            Stiles stared at the kitchen door and expected it to fly open and smack him across the face. The memory of Derek’s hand pressed against his chest burned. “Yeah,” he murmured as he rubbed at the tingling area. “Almost impossible.”

***

            A knock on his bedroom door made Stiles startle awake, flailing the sheets away from his body to free himself from the blanket prison. Last night he’d tightly wrapped himself up, his body feeling jittery and anxious to the point where he needed to feel something touching his entire body. And since human contact was not an option: blankets.

            Stiles had stopped taking medication for his ADHD after finishing upper secondary school before heading off to Detroit. His body had settled enough that his doctors had said it was no longer necessary, which was a relief for Stiles and his father, financially. But it was also a little confidence boost for Stiles, allowing him to feel like his body was finally cooperating with him and had finally grown enough to put him in a good place.

            But once in Detroit, his latent anxiety kicked in. With his ADHD to mask it, Stiles hadn’t thought much of it until his hyperactivity was no longer labeled as a problem. It started off as homesickness, and a heavy sadness at being away from his father, the only family left in his life. But through technology and phone calls, Stiles managed to stay in touch with his father in enough ways despite the distance that he was able to feel safe. Still, the lack of friends or a support circle like he’d had at home left him feeling isolated.

            Those feelings of isolation, tied with loneliness and lack of confidence mixed together to create a horrific concoction of anxiety. Stiles didn’t take any medication for it, because navigating the difference in health care from Poland to America was stressful and annoying, and something he just didn’t want to deal with.

            So he learned to cope, and this was one of his ways how.

            “Fucking Derek,” Stiles grumbled under his breath as the knocking at his door reverberated through the room four more times. It was his fault, after all. Showing up. Surprising Stiles. Practically saving his ice skating career…

            Stiles turned to look at the poster of Derek on his wall. Physically, Derek still looked very similar to how he had six years ago. He’d grown up, that was for sure, but the confidence that the Derek in the poster exuded was not lost in Derek today.

            Stiles shook the blankets away as he stood and walked over to the poster. Lifting a hand, he began to pick at the upper right edge, pealing the glossy paper away from the wall until he found the adhesive sticking it there, and he used a wiggling finger to separate it from the wall. The corner of the poster came free easily, and soon the other three corners were detached from the wall as well.

            Stiles threw the adhesive away and carefully rolled up the poster before tucking it away in the back of his closet.

            He didn’t have a need for that reminder, anymore. He had the real live thing currently banging on his door. Derek Hale was no longer just a dream that he could try to reach, he was a reality. Stiles felt a shiver roll down his spine. For the first time, he suddenly felt excited about skating competitively again. This time, with Derek at his side.

            “What?” Stiles finally shouted, getting the knocking to cease.

            “Practice. You should have been up hours ago,” came Derek’s gruff voice from the other side of the door.

            Stiles rolled his eyes and checked the time on his phone. “It’s barely gone nine,” he whined to himself. But he supposed he shouldn’t complain. For Derek, it was eight in the morning, having lost an hour going from Ireland to Poland.

            With a heavy sigh that he hoped Derek could head from behind the door, he started opening up his dresser drawers, making an overly exaggerated amount of noise to signal to Derek that he was awake and moving. s

            Footsteps receded down the hallway, and Stiles sighed in relief. He wasn’t sure yet how he should be reacting to Derek. Derek was his coach now, so that meant he was the one with some authority here. However, in this profession, skaters and coaches work together towards an outcome, so it was very different than a boss/employee situation. Technically, Stiles was employing Derek.

            And besides their professional relationship…what _was_ that yesterday? With the closeness, the hand on his chest, those soft questions… Stiles had met a lot of different people in the skating world, and there were flirty skaters and reserved skaters and skaters who completely ignored everyone else. But Derek had never been someone who was flirty. He had a charm that he possessed and showed during interviews and meetings with fans. But it wasn’t overly friendly, like he had drawn a line and was very comfortable with where it stayed.

            But what Stiles had experienced yesterday was something completely different. Derek had stepped over his line right into Stiles’ personal space. And Stiles…hadn’t hated it? For all of a surprise that it was and how glad he was of Lydia’s call to interrupt him, he hadn’t been scared, or even anxious really.

            Something about Derek, even in situations like that, calmed him.

            After getting ready for the day as quickly as he could, Stiles snagged his duffle bag and headed out into the kitchen to grab some breakfast before going to the rink. Derek was waiting for him in the kitchen.

            “Is Cora going to want breakfast?” Stiles asked as he opened the fridge to pull out the carton of eggs and some sausage.

            Derek gave him an unimpressed look as he leaned against the counter. “She had breakfast a bit ago.” He gestured to the cleaned pots and plates that were sitting next to the sink, drying. “And I ate with her. Are you usually this slow to get up in the morning?”

            Stiles bristled at the tone Derek was using. “Well, excuse me for sleeping in. I have all day to do whatever I want, so sleeping in allows my body to fully recharge, making my day more productive.” He started browning meat in a pan while he began cracking eggs over the edge of a second.

            “Do you spend all of your time skating?” Derek inquired, sounding genuinely curious.

            Stiles paused in his movements for just a second before he resumed them, thinking over Derek’s question. “No,” he answered truthfully. “I do not have singular access to the rink, so I can’t always be there, but I do spend a lot of time there daily. If I can’t skate, I will be working out, or visiting my father for lunch, or meeting with friends.”

            “Have you always had so much free time?”

            Stiles’ hand clenched around the handle of the spatula. He took a deep breath; in, and out. Stiles didn’t think Derek meant any malicious intent behind his words, but they still irritated him, like Derek was saying that if he spent more time on the ice then he would be a better skater.

            “Free time is integral to relax the mind and body, and everyone should have at least an hour or two of it every day, otherwise human beings will go insane with working themselves to the bone.”

            Stiles turned to stare Derek down, eyes narrowed, waiting for Derek to argue with his words. Derek smirked back at him. He said nothing, just nodded and bit into a piece of the fresh warm bread that Stiles’ father must have picked up from the bakery this morning.

            He had cute bunny teeth, Stiles realized with a jolt. That wasn’t something Stiles had ever noticed before. Derek wasn’t big on smiling in front of cameras, and the times that he did he never showed his teeth, Stiles wondered if he was self-conscious about it.

            “I’ll eat fast and then we can go,” Stiles assured, not sure what else to say in the moment. Derek nodded and then turned away, exiting the kitchen. Stiles watched him leave. His feet were bare, Stiles noticed. Stiles’ house didn’t have the heating on, and checking the temperature on his phone he saw it was only eight degrees[iv] outside. It was a wonder why Derek didn’t put on slippers, or socks at least. Stiles stared down at his red cashmere socks covered in little black wolves. Socks were a staple item in his house; he was surprised Derek wasn’t freezing cold.

            As he promised, Stiles ate his scrambled eggs and sausage quickly, tossing the pan and plate into the sink to clean later. He grabbed his abandoned duffle bag and moved into the living room where he regretfully ditched his comfortable socks for the regular cotton ones he wore for skating. Stiles could always tell which socks he usually wore to practice in, because the heel and the sole were always dirtier than any other part of the sock, and they wore out quickly. Stiles slipped into his most comfortable pair of tennis shoes, because he got the feeling that Derek was not going to go easy on him today. He set his cashmere socks aside, to put back on when he got home. He would need the comfort if his intuition was right.

            Derek was waiting at the door for him, leather jacket donned overtop of a pair of tight black sweat pants. Stiles felt his face heating up as he wondered if they were actually leggings they looked so tight. Stiles looked down at his own usual workout pants and wondered if he’d ever look that good.

            Derek had a small bag himself, and Stiles felt like he couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Derek Hale’s skates were in there. Skates with a golden blade were not often seen, and though Derek was nonchalant in everything he did, he seemed to flaunt them while he competed. Stiles had been envious of those skates ever since the first time he saw them. He’d even, once, searched around to see if he could get a pair of his own. The price quickly scared him off.

            “Are we driving?” Stiles wondered as Derek lead the way out of the house. He realized belatedly that the car was no longer in the driveway, and he muttered softly under his breath, “Or not.”

            Derek looked back at him, mouth twitching just a little. “Cora went into the city for a business meeting, so she took the car. Plus, you said that you usually walk to places, correct? Not to mention, you really could use some more exercise. You gained weight, no?”

            Stiles huffed out in anger. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But I have been working out! Every day! I have more muscle than I did last year,” he argued, shoving up the sleeve of his jacket and showing the muscle definition in his arm.

            Derek took that as an invitation to grab hold of Stiles’ wrist and pull him close. Stiles stumbled, almost fell into him, but managed to right himself by using Derek’s shoulder for balance. Derek’s fingers covered in a pair of leather gloves trailed up and down his forearm, then moved on to his bicep. The touch was cold, and Stiles momentarily wished for Derek’s fingers to be free of their leather confines.

            Stiles shook his head. He needed to keep his thoughts in check. Derek was his coach now, and there was no room for these hero-worship thoughts. That _was_ what they were, right?”

            “Hmm,” was all Derek said before he dropped Stiles’ arm. Stiles let his jacket unscrunch itself and it fell back down to his wrist slowly as the fabric unfurled.

            Derek started to jog, and Stiles followed after him. He soon had to take the lead, because he realized that Derek probably had no idea where he was supposed to go. They jogged side by side, in an easy silence. Derek was obviously not much of a talker. And though Stiles normally was, he did his best to keep his comments internal. He didn’t want to go and annoy Derek.

            When they arrived at Ice Cathedral, Derek actually took out his phone and snapped a photo of it. While Derek fiddled with his phone, Stiles scrambled for his. He had a sudden urge to have a photograph of Derek for himself, as proof that this was really happening.

            Stiles was stealthy about his photo taking, even though Derek wasn’t looking at him. He caught a photo of Derek staring down at his phone, a furrow deeply set on his brow, with Ice Cathedral in the background.

            As much as he wanted to, he wasn’t going to post it on his Twitter or Instagram with the comment, “LOOK AT MY COACH I WIN!” That would make him look childish. Instead, he sent both to Scott, who responded back only a few seconds later with a bushel of explanation points, even though it was somewhere around one in the morning back in America.

            Stiles and Derek tucked their phones back into their pockets simultaneously, and when Derek looked at Stiles, Stiles put on his most innocent expression. He tilted his head, grinned brightly, and then quickly walked up to the converted church. They were not technically open to the public this early, so the large front doors were closed. But Stiles had gotten permission from Lydia the night before to come in whenever, so he pulled them open himself.

            Stiles nodded at Jackson, who was sitting in the office with the door open, going over some files of some sort. The man waved at him and Derek, adjusted his glasses, then looked back down, disinterested.

            Stiles reached out to stop Derek, hand curling into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He stood still, Derek confused at his side, waiting and watching.

            Jackson’s entire body went rigid and his head snapped up so quickly that it made his glasses go askew. He quickly took them off and tossed them onto the desk and he jumped up from his chair and speed-walked out of his office.

            “Stiles Stilinski,” Jackson said, very calmly and very icily. “What is going on right now?” Jackson’s Polish always sounded a bit off, a bit unsteady, but his tone made it an even scarier thing to hear.

            Derek’s hand came down onto Stiles’ shoulder, startling the younger man, eyes wide as he stared over at Derek. Derek was looking straight at Jackson, however.

            “I am Derek Hale, it is nice to meet you. I am going to be Stiles’ coach, and we will be using this rink. Okay?”

            Jackson blinked, eyes wide, taken aback. “Uh, um,” he stuttered. Stiles grinned victoriously. Jackson flustered was a very rare sight indeed, especially ever since Lydia had gotten pregnant, so he reveled in this image. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Hale. Go —go ahead.”

            Stiles stuck his tongue out at Jackson when Derek turned his back to them, and Jackson was still too surprised to react as he usually would to Stiles’ childish antics.

            Derek pulled open the doors to the rink and then stood in the doorway, eyes seeming to roam over every inch of the place. It wasn’t all that big, especially compared to the centers where competitions were held, and it was probably smaller than the rink that Derek skated at back in Ireland.

            “It will have to do,” Derek said, vocalizing Stiles’ thoughts.

            Even though he’d been thinking the exact same thing, Stiles still bristled. Derek had no right to look down on his home rink for its size or glamour value. Had he even _looked_ at the stain glass windows? He glared at his coach, and Derek raised his eyebrows up in response.

            “Let me just get my skates on then,” Stiles said stiffly, turning to head for the closest bench. He dropped his bag to the ground, and he winced at the loud sound it made.

            He quickly laced up his skates, every few seconds his eyes wandering over to Derek who was doing the same thing. He seemed to look better while doing it, though, his gloved hands experts at the laces, never once getting caught in them.

            Stiles finished first and didn’t wait for Derek to get onto the ice and started to skate laps around the rink, sticking close to the boards. After ten laps, he noticed that Derek was still not on the ice with him, and he scanned the rink to see where he was.

            The man was leaning against the boards, arms crossed over each other as they rested on the edge. He was watching Stiles, probably observing the way he skated for future notes. Stiles skated up to him and stopped on the other side of the boards, fingers curling around the edge.

            “So, how do you want to go about this?” Stiles asked.

            Derek’s eyes drifted, like he was thinking, before they refocused back onto Stiles. “Before we start to choreograph your programs I need to know what you are able to do. I have some ideas already for the short program, but putting it into practice may not succeed if I’m not correctly evaluating your skills.”

            Stiles nodded. “Sounds good.”

            “I catalogued your past competitions and watched your performances,” Derek said. Stiles’ eyes widened. When had he had the time to do that? Last night?

            Derek’s mouth quirked up into a smirk, eyebrows high on his forehead as he added, “You have never successfully landed a quad in competition, though I assume you have in practice otherwise you and your coach would have been suicidal to put it into your routine.”

            “Hey!” Stiles exclaimed, offended.

            Derek stared him down and asked, “Am I wrong?”

            Stiles gritted his teeth. He was too proud to admit his failings, but his reaction said everything he didn’t need to.

            The board began to buzz, and Stiles’ face relaxed as he and Derek glanced over to see the phone next to Derek’s elbow vibrating.

            “Oh, excuse me just a second,” Derek apologized as he reached for his ringing phone. A name was flashing over the screen, BOBBY, in bold capital letters. That name sounded familiar for some reason. Derek took the call without hesitation. “Derek Hale.”

            Stiles wasn’t sure what was said in response, however it sure was loud. Stiles wasn’t even sure Derek would understand what was being said, his face was scrunched up in a grimace. Eventually, the onslaught of shouting ceased, and Derek calmly brought the phone back up to his ear.

            “Coach,” Derek spoke gently, and Stiles’ eyes widened. Coach Bobby Finstock, of course! He was the coach for all of the Irish skaters, because there were only so many of them. Apparently, the man had moved to Ireland on a whim, fed-up with how arrogant American skaters could be, and basically bullied his way into becoming the top coach in the country. He’d been with Derek since the beginning. “Great to hear from you,” Derek continued, ignoring Stiles’ open-mouthed stare.

            Derek’s lips pursed as Finstock said something else semi-loudly, though not as much as before. “Yes. I left you a message.”

            “A PHONE MESSAGE.” The response this time was loud and clear. Stiles shrunk away and ducked his head. Coach Finstock must just now be hearing Derek’s plan for coaching Stiles.

            Derek glanced at Stiles, who quickly looked away and pretended to be brushing ice off of his blades. Derek made a soft noise, but by the time Stiles glanced back up, his head was turned away, face his usual stoic expression as he nodded to whatever Finstock was saying.

            “Yes. Right. I know. I will see you soon. Only eight months until the Grand Prix!” Derek signed off of the call there, cutting off the next batch of shouts.

            Stiles cleared his throat, wary of saying anything that would make Derek think coming out here to coach him was a bad idea. “Is everything alright?” he settled on.

            “Hm?” Derek turned to look at him as he set his pone back onto the boards’ ledge. “Yes, of course.”

            Stiles blinked. Derek sounded like nothing had just happened. Huh. Okay then. Stiles smiled at him and nodded.

            “Right. Now, we were discussing your jumps, correct?”

            Stiles remembered, and he narrowed his eyes at the irritation that bubbled back up with it. “Yes,” he snapped. “I can land the toe loop and sometimes the Lutz. And the Salchow, but only in practice.”

            Derek hummed, and Stiles quickly added, “But I think I can do it, now.”

            Derek seemed intrigued by his assertion. Still. “For now we will leave that out until you prove to me you are capable of putting it to the test.”

            Stiles’ jaw dropped. Derek raised an eyebrow.

            “Is that an issue?” he asked, voice innocent.

            Stiles didn’t have a leg to stand on here. He knew Derek was probably right in being cautious, at this juncture. In competition, he could always change his routine to insert a quad Salchow.

            He wasn’t going to give up, though. Now that Derek was at his side, he was going to prove that he was worthy of his standing as a nationally ranked figure skater.

            Not getting any argument from Stiles, Derek nodded and then joined him on the ice. “Let’s start off with singles and then work our way up, alright? You can manage singles and doubles, but your triples could use some work and I will not allow that.”

            Stiles straightened his spine and nodded. Derek threw out an arm, gesturing to the expanse of ice out in front of them.

            “What are you waiting for?” Derek asked, voice rough. “Begin!”

***

            On rare occasions, Ice Cathedral hosted events where the use of the booth in the back was necessary, Lydia explained to Derek as she gave him a brief tour of the rink while Stiles was visiting his father for lunch. Derek had texted Cora just to check up, but she said she would be getting back late around dinner and to not expect to hear from her before.

            Derek had skated around for a while, just to keep his body warm, but soon grew tired of the silence. He was used to skating with several other skaters, and with Finstock as his coach there had never been a silent moment. So he tracked down Lydia to ask her about the sound system in the rink, to ask permission to at least play some music to alleviate the quiet.

            Lydia was very receptive to the idea, which eventually turned into a tour of every nook and crannie of Ice Cathedral. She ended the tour in the sound booth, showing him how to hook up his phone into the speaker system, allowing soft music to play over the ice.

            There was a panel of glass separating the rink and the booth, so Derek could see when Stiles stepped back into the ice, an easy smile on his face, looking refreshed and relaxed. Stiles glanced around, looking a little confused for a moment, before he shrugged and started skating lazily around, executing simple flips and twirls and step-sequences that they both could do in their sleep. Yet there was something about the way that Stiles acted that made Derek not want to take his eyes off of him.

            Lydia cleared her throat, capturing Derek’s attention, and she raised an eyebrow at him. Derek stared back at her, unperturbed. He wasn’t about to hide his interest in Stiles. He wasn’t ashamed of it. And if Lydia had a problem with him, he wanted her to address it before anything became awkward. Lydia meant a lot to Stiles, if Derek was assuming things correctly. He didn’t want to interfere with that friendship, but Derek was Stiles’ coach, so he kind of did have authority.

            But Lydia didn’t have any objections to his obvious staring. She smiled at him, pink staining her cheeks, before she looked out towards the ice as well. Stiles was skating backwards, marking figure eights into the ice.

            “He’s anxious,” Lydia spoke, voice soft and fond.

            Derek looked over at her, keeping Stiles in the corner of his eye.

            “He used to skate whenever his anxiety got too much for him to handle. I know we’ve ben apart for a while, but…” She looked at Stiles. “I don’t think he’s changed since then. Ice Cathedral was rarely booked so he had a lot of open skating opportunities, before.”

            Derek thought about everything that he knew about Stiles, and fitting in ‘anxiety’ in his mental file was pretty simple to do. It matched up with the rest of his quirks. His lack of confidence while skating, his small circle of people he trusted, and the necessary addition of alcohol to loosen up and speak his mind.

            “I love Stiles, but he’s nothing like you,” Lydia said with a soft giggle. Derek was surprised at her blatant words. “You have natural talent and genius when it comes to ice skating. Stiles is not a prodigy. But with so much free time to practice,” Lydia sighed and leaned on the sound board, tilted towards the glass and admiring Stiles’ skating, “he quickly surpassed my skill level before he was twelve, much as I loathed and still do to admit it. His father was always busy working, and after Stiles’ mother died —”

            Derek’s eyebrows shot up. He knew that Stiles’ mother wasn’t around, but he hadn’t planned to ask what happened. Now he knew.

            “—he especially wanted to stay out of his empty house, so he’d come here after school, every single day.”

            “I always thought he just really loved skating,” Jackson said as he walked into the booth. He pecked Lydia’s cheek. “Cześć kochanie[v].”

            “Natalie?” Lydia asked her husband.

            “In the office.” He looked over at Derek and smirked. “She’s going to freak out when she sees you.”

            Derek raised an eyebrow in confusion at Lydia.

            “Our daughter,” she explained. “Huge fan.”

            “Ah,” he hummed, gaze drawn back to Stiles like metal to a magnet.

            “Anyway, he never really hung out with friends that didn’t also skate,” Lydia said, jumping back into their previous conversation.

            “Not that he was all that great at making them,” Jackson countered, a mean smirk on his face. Derek narrowed his eyes. He did not appreciate him.

            Lydia disagreed as well, because she elbowed him in the gut, and Jackson went down.

            Like nothing had happened, Lydia continued her explanation. “Because of his _anxiety_ ,” she stressed the word, “doubled with his hyper deficiency, he was never one to put himself out there for fear of rejection.”

            Ah. That cleared some things up.

_“Wygrałem, więc powinieneś być mój trener, Derek. **[vi]**”_

            Derek shuddered at the memory of those words, though he hadn’t known what Stiles was saying at the time. He looked it up at a later time, though he couldn’t remember all of it, but from the words “win” and “coach” he got the gist pretty well.

            Derek shook his head. Not the time to think of the past.

            “I don’t want this to be the end for him,” Lydia breathed, looking vulnerable for the first time.

            Jackson squeezed Lydia’s shoulder. “It won’t be,” he whispered to her, though Derek managed to catch it.

            “Derek,” Lydia called his attention to her, and he snapped his body around to look at her head-on, like she deserved. “Stiles _hates_ losing. He’s just gotten so used to it that he’s basically gone numb now. But I’ve already started to see some more light in his eyes since you’ve gotten here. I’m expecting that you’ll bring that competitive spirit back out.”

            That was a command if ever Derek had heard one.

            “So we need to wake the prince from his everlasting sleep,” Derek murmured to himself. His mind transitioned into thinking of Stiles’ routine. For the short program, Derek already had Plan A and Plan B, but now he was thinking that rather than showing Stiles both and letting him choose, that perhaps he needed…a kiss to awaken him.

            Derek glanced up to see Jackson and Lydia looking at him expectantly.

            “Thank you, both,” Derek said sincerely. “I think I am getting to know Stiles very well.” _Of course_ , Derek thought to himself as he exited the booth to return to the rink and instruct Stiles to run some drills, _getting information from the source would have been nicer_. But as Lydia said, Stiles had anxiety, so it made sense that he would not want to confide so easily in Derek. Derek certainly could not trust easily, however he found Stiles to be someone he wanted to trust, which had really not ever happened to him before.

            “Stiles, you’re slowing down,” Derek snapped as soon as he reached the boards and stepped onto the ice.

            Stiles jumped, surprised at Derek’s sudden appearance. “Jesus H. Christ! Wear a bell, would you?”

            Derek narrowed his eyes. “Don’t change the subject. Show me your triples and quads once more. And do not forget what I told you earlier about that toe loop.”

            Stiles mock-saluted at Derek, mouth pursed in a thin line, but he still executed an almost perfect triple Salchow not thirty seconds later, so Derek didn’t comment. This was probably just Stiles’ regular demeanor, being sarcastic to his superiors. Perhaps that evolved from his father being in law enforcement.

            Stiles went up for a quadruple toe loop and underrotated, flinging am arm out and catching himself against the ice before he righted himself and spun away. “Kurwa[vii],” Stiles hissed, and Derek guessed there was nothing flattering about whatever he just said.

            “We’ll work on it,” Derek declared, skating up to Stiles. “Confidence is key. If you think you are going to fail, then you will.”

            Stiles stared directly back at him, a fire burning in his eyes. Derek held back the urge to smirk. That was exactly the response he was looking for. Stiles needed to fight, and if that meant giving him someone to fight, and if that even meant that that person had to be Derek, then so be it.

            Derek brought up a gloved hand and chuffed Stiles gently under the chin with a curled pointer finger. Stiles’ eyes widened, breath hitching at the sudden intimate move. Derek bit his bottom lip, really having to restrain his victorious smirk.

            “Next,” he said casually, even though his pulse had begun to speed up. Even through the gloves he had imagined the softness of Stiles’ skin, and it left his hand tingling. He backed up until his legs hit the boards, putting necessary space between the two of them.

            Stiles stood still for a moment, unmoving, until Derek snapped at him with the same command. He received a scowl but a greatly executed triple Salchow.

            Yeah, this would work out just fine.

***

            Later that night, once Stiles and Derek were back home, and dinner had been made and eaten by them as well as Cora and Stiles’ father, Stiles was relaxing on his bed, soothing his aching muscles. He plugged his phone into its charger before unlocking it and scrolling through his social media.

            He checked his Instagram app, first looking for the at least three daily posts (mostly selfies) from Scott, and then clicking on his notifications tag. He always felt very humbled by the massive amount of people who liked the things that he had to say, during the rare times that he actually posted anything. Maybe once a month during the competition season he would post a photo and a little caption, but not much. His notifications on all of his social media had blown up in the last couple of days, ever since _that video_ went viral. Because of this, he almost missed the different icon in his activity chart, showing that he had been tagged in a post.

            Clicking on it sent him directly to the Instagram profile of Derek Hale, who eleven hours ago had posted a photo of Ice Cathedral, tagged his location, a simply wrote as a caption, “ice rink in a church? Only in Poland”. Stiles tapped the photo, and a little tag with his Instagram name popped up, placed right in the heart of the photo. The comments were a mess of caps lock and quotation marks, and Stiles didn’t bother looking at them.

            Heat swelled in his chest as he stared at that tiny tag. It was a little thing, but having Derek validate him this way in a very public fashion was a relieving feeling. He finally felt like he was getting back onto his feet. He had a coach who was open about coaching him, family and friends willing to support him, and a new confidence in him.

            Stiles dropped his phone to his chest after liking the photo, resting it over his heart. He grabbed a pillow from behind his head and smashed it over his face to smother the grin that he couldn’t shake off.

***

            After getting the official sign-off from the higher-ups of Ice Cathedral, the rink was declared the official training place of Stiles Stilinski, alongside his coach Derek Hale. Now there were set days during the week where Ice Cathedral was no longer open to the public. However, the loss of revenue from those days was quickly made up from the very sudden rise in visitors.

            Ever since it hit the news that Derek Hale was in Poland, reporters have been flocking, and fans from all over have been visiting, wanting to skate at the rink where Derek Hale coached. Stiles wasn’t really offended that all of this popularity was stemming from Derek, though it was a little irritating having to push through the crowd of fangirls at the front door just to get into the rink. And none of them even batted an eye at him, as if he wasn’t worth their time. It only hardened Stiles’ resolve that bit more. He would get those girls to make a pathway for him like Moses and the Red Sea.

            There was an A-frame positioned in front of the entrance glass doors covered in a thick paper sign written in Polish and English, “Sorry for the inconvenience. Closed today.”

            Of all people, Natalie stood guard right inside of the glass doors, her fierce demeanor and tiny frame scaring off anyone who tried to step in to her rink. The reporters were afraid of upsetting her, and the fans were enamored with how cute she was, so it was a rather effective strategy.

            Her father had even set up a little table for her to sit at that faced the doors, and she was sitting there when Stiles arrived, feet kicking back and forth as she gripped a crayon tightly in her hand, coloring something with determination.

            Stiles tapped on the glass three times, getting her attention, and Natalie lit up, face breaking out into a smile when she saw him.

            “Stiles!” he could see her mouth through the door. She jumped up and pushed on the door’s release, opening it to him. He caught it quickly, pulling it open for her. He made sure there was no one close to him trying to sneak in as he slipped between the crack. He let the door fall closed behind him, automatically locking, and muffling the sounds of the chaos outside.

            “How are you today, Natalie?” Stiles asked. “That’s a lovely drawing,” he complimented, nodding his head towards her coloring supplies.

            “Thank you! I’m making a poster to hang up outside!” She picked up the paper and showed it to him.

            Stiles guessed he could see the two figures she’d drawn resembling himself and Derek. Natalie was only six, though, so it wasn’t half bad with that reminder. “Very good idea!” he complimented. “And I’m sure Derek will love it too. He’s already here, right?”

            Thankfully, Stiles had gotten to be a witness for Natalie’s introduction to Derek. It had been not long after Stiles had gotten back from having lunch with his father, and Derek and Stiles had both been on the ice when they heard an ungodly screech coming from the entrance doors. They both turned, alarmed. Stiles had wondered if someone had been murdered due to the pitch of that scream.

            Instead, a six-year-old came bursting onto the ice, _in tennis shoes_. Her father and mother were scrambling after her, thankfully both of them wearing skates. Jackson had caught Natalie around the waist before she managed to get to Derek or slip and break something, but it was a near thing.

            Natalie had been sobbing, tears rolling down her face, babbling in Polish about meeting her idol while she waved her Derek Hale phone case around, probably taking photos at the same time. Derek was sweet to her, introducing himself in Polish, which shocked the hell out of Stiles. The man must have been practicing, so that he could interact with the locals. It was such a kind gesture. Stiles had felt a little touched.

            Natalie stopped crying and immediately started sprouting out questions. Jackson translated the important ones to Derek (i.e. the ones that weren’t too ridiculous or the ones that didn’t make Jackson flustered to hear come from his daughter’s mouth).

            Natalie managed to steal a half an hour of practice time away, but neither Stiles nor Derek were that upset about it, even though that meant that they didn’t get time to properly cool down before the evening’s classes were scheduled to begin.

            Looking at the calm and composed little girl now, Stiles would have never suspected she’d been that overwhelmed meeting Derek had he not been there.

            Natalie scoffed, something she’d undoubtedly picked up from her mother, as she flounced back to her little table. “He’s been here _forever_.”

            Derek had been gone this morning when Stiles had gotten up, Cora already in the city before dawn. He’d eaten breakfast with his father and walked with him to work before heading to Ice Cathedral. He knew Derek was an early riser, but to have been here for _hours_?

            Stiles quickly got ready to go onto the ice, zipping up his jacket with steady fingers. Today was the day, the first practice working on his routines for this next season. Anticipation buzzed beneath his skin. He felt energetic, and prepared.

            When Stiles stepped into the rink, his voice caught in his throat as he opened his mouth to announce his presence. Derek was gliding across the ice, dancing to nothing, but looking as natural as all out. The movements he made, the step sequence he enacted, they were something new to Stiles. He’d seen every performance of Derek’s that the man had ever done on television, but this was new. Stiles felt a shiver run up his spine. Could this be his?

            Derek’s moves were practiced, like this wasn’t the first time he was dabbling in moving this way. This routine must have been something he’d been working on for at least a little while. Derek didn’t fully execute the jumps, just marking them, but Stiles could visualize Derek executing a flawless quad where he’d substituted a single, and it stole his breath away, a little.

            Derek was born to be on the ice. So…why was he coaching Stiles instead?

            “Is that mine?” Stiles choked out as he stepped up to the boards.

            Derek looked over at him, eyebrows rising minutely, before he tipped his head to the side in a sign of confusion. Ah, see. Stiles was beginning to learn how to read the not-often verbose man.

            “The routine,” Stiles clarified. “Is that mine?”

            Derek hummed noncommittedly, lazily skating a figure eight before heading over towards him. “No,” he finally said.

            Stiles raised an eyebrow. “But it was a routine.”

            “It’s the routine I was working on,” Derek said in agreement. “But this one isn’t for you.”

            _Okay…_ Stiles thought to himself. That was an odd way to word that.

            “So where is mine, then?” Stiles challenged. “If that one is for someone else, then where is mine?”

            Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Yours is different,” was all Derek said on the matter. “Get on the ice and warm up. You stretched, I assume?” Stiles nodded. “Good, Get over here.”

            Stiles sighed dramatically, like it was a nuisance, but didn’t halt in his movements towards the opening in the boards to get onto the ice. He could feel Derek’s eyes on him the entire time. It made his body feel warm, despite the cold temperature of the room.

            As Stiles skated a lap around Derek, he kept his eyes on him the entire time. Derek, however, had moved his gaze away from Stiles to his phone. It irritated Stiles for some unknown reason. He didn’t need Derek’s eyes 24/7, in fact he would hate that and spontaneously combust if that happened. But on the ice, Derek should be looking at him. The sudden wave of possessiveness hit Stiles, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. So he stared at Derek, waiting for him to understand what Stiles couldn’t.

            “Alright,” Derek said, shocking Stiles. His eyes were still downcast to his phone. “I have your short program.”

            Stiles balked. “Are… What?” he sputtered, skating up to Derek.

            Finally, the older man caught his eyes. “Your short program. I have it all choreographed.”

            “Okay,” Stiles spoke slowly. “What is it?”

            Instead of answering, which, Stiles should probably expect 50% of the time if he was being honest, Derek pulled something from his pocket. It looked like a tiny remote. He pointed it across the rink, towards the sound booth in the back. He pressed his thumb down, and suddenly, sweet music began to pour out of the speakers, echoing around the rink and bouncing off of the walls.

            Stiles stood and listened to the music for a moment, closing his eyes and taking in the calm melody. The song filled him with emotion.

            “This song is one of two, titled On Love.” Derek’s voice filtered in through his thoughts, and Stiles’ eyes fluttered open and he looked at the older man. Derek’s eyes were intense, though they usually were. “Have you thought much about love, Stiles?”

            Stiles tensed. “Not…since I was young, no.”

            Derek nodded, no judgement on his face. Stiles was a little relieved. Being twenty-three, people expected for him to have met someone by now, or at least tried a relationship. But because of his anxiety, and living so far from home when at school, and on top of that all of his training…it was not a priority. Not that there was really anyone he was interested in. He supposed he loved Scott, in a way, but like a brother. The love this song invoked was a little like that, but deeper. Like how he loved his father, and his mother.

            “What do you feel, listening to this?”

            Stiles thought about it for a moment, almost getting swept back up into the melody as he formulated his answer. “It sounds very innocent?” he stated like a question.

            “Does it.” Derek challenged, voicing his question like a statement.

            Stiles hardened his resolve. “It does. Pure and innocent, like they don’t know what love truly is yet.”

            _Hm. Sounds like me_ , Stiles thought. Perhaps this would work for him for his routine. He could easily connect with this.

            Derek nodded sharply, once, before pressing another button on the remote in his hand. The music cut off abruptly. Stiles felt like he missed it immediately. He wanted to hear the resolution. If he was going to skate to it, shouldn’t he hear the entire song first?

            A second button was pushed, and a new melody flooded the rink, and Stiles sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden change of the music. It opened with a flurry of chords strummed on a guitar, but the tempo was much faster, this song incorporating multiple instruments.

            Stiles’ eyes widened when he realized that this was the same song, just…a different arrangement.

            “On Love, the second part,” Derek spoke, confirming Stiles’ realization. “What about this one?”

            Stiles was still having trouble picking is jaw up off of the ice. “Huh?”

            “What does this make you think of?”

            Stiles felt his mouth go dry, his tongue feeling heavy. “Sex,” he blurted out.

            Derek smirked and huffed a breath out of his nose, in amusement. “Exactly. Eros is sexual love, the theme of this composition. The first was Agape, unconditional love.”

            “Why have me listen to both arrangements, then, if I can only skate to one?” Stiles asked, intrigued.

            “I wanted you to hear the two contrasting themes. If you are to skate to one, you should know its counterpart well.”

            Huh. That was actually a really interesting way of delivering a routine. Derek was right, of course. Stiles wondered if this was what Derek’s thought process was like when it came to all of his routines. Stiles had never crafted his own routine before, so learning about why Derek made the choices that he did was very interesting to note.

            “Since you will be skating to Eros, it is vital to understanding the difference in tone and execution.”

            “Right.” Stiles nodded. Then Derek’s words sunk in. “Wait what?! Eros?”

            Derek raised an eyebrow. “Yes. You have to do the opposite of what people expect, and what you expect yourself. By surprising yourself, you will surprise them too.”

            “But…” Stiles stammered. Derek wanted him to skate to a song with the theme of sexual love? What made Derek think that he could pull something like this off? Stiles knew, especially after having gone through college completely single with only a few scattered drunk hookups, that there was not anything about himself that anyone had ever considered sexy.

            “You need to be much more self-aware, Stiles,” Derek spoke, sounding like he was chastising him. “You cannot choose your own self-image. However, you can shape it. That is what I want to see from you.”

            “But, Derek, I —”

            “You want me to coach you, yes?”

            Stiles froze. Derek had gone serious, and a little bit sullen. There was something in his gaze that felt familiar. The way Derek’s hand clenched and jaw stiffened, it was like he was preparing for a rejection but didn’t care about the outcome.

            “Yes,” Stiles responded, without hesitation.

            Derek’s fist relaxed. “Then you will do well to meet my expectations.”

            If Derek thought that Stiles had what it took to pull off an On Love: Eros routine, then who was Stiles to say that he couldn’t before he’d even given it a chance? It was time to turn over a new leaf, a new Stiles Stilinski shown to the world.

            “Mmm,” Stiles agreed, nodding sharply once. “I want to win. And I want to keep on winning, with you.”

            Derek’s eyes widened, just a pinch.

            “I’ll skate to Eros and give it all I’ve got to make that happen.”

            A slow grin worked its way up Derek’s face until he smiled at Stiles in a way that Stiles had never seen before, and it stole his breath away a little, even though he’d tried to seem so confident not a moment before.

            “That is what I have been waiting to hear,” Derek said softly. His cheeks were tinted pink. Stiles wished it was because of him.

            The song had finished. Stiles hadn’t even heard it complete it’s play-through. “Play it again?” he requested.

            Derek nodded, pressed the same button on the remote, and Eros repeated itself.

            This time, Stiles closed his eyes and kept them closed. He internalized the music, feeling every thump of the beat in his bones. He tried to imagine himself skating to this song, but his mind came up blank. He imagined Derek skating this song, and a million images ran past his eyes. Derek could pull off a sexy routine with ease, though Stiles had not seen him do so in the last few years competing. But Derek at age nineteen…he had pulled off a performance that had left fifteen-year-old Stiles with a sexuality crisis.

            Stiles shook his head. No, he couldn’t think of Derek skating this. It had to be him. This was his routine.

            Stiles bobbed his head to the violin as he imagined spinning to its rhythm. He could now see flashes of himself, the same way he imagined himself in daydreams: as a confident man. He just had to channel that, somehow.

            The song began to build up, the violin screeching harshly and sharply before it dissolved into a colorful explosion, violin and guitar strings intertwining as the song came to a close.

            Stiles huffed out a sharp breath as the song concluded. His stomach felt heavy.

            “Are you ready for the chorography?”

            Derek’s voice snapped Stiles out of his thoughts, eyes flying open and landing on the man who was much closer to him now than he had been.

            “Ah, yes. Yes, I am,” Stiles replied, feeling a little flustered.

            Stiles stepped off of the ice to stand behind the boards and lean against them, planning to take mental notes on how Derek performed the routine. He adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie, rolling them up and down several times, to try and make himself comfortable.

            “Ready?” Derek asked in a bored tone, eyebrows arched, remote pinched between two fingers.

            Stiles huffed. “Yes, I am ready.”

            Derek skated to center ice and stopped. His hip cocked out, arms laid to rest lazily at his sides. His entire face relaxed, and Stiles felt that if Derek had been facing him, he would have melted.

            The music began to play, and Derek _moved_. His movements were liquidous, and Stiles felt his mouth drop open in shock as the opening strumming of the guitar played and Derek spun around to face him, head snapping over to meet his eyes. He smirked. Stiles had to hold on to the boards very tightly so at to not fall over when his knees buckled.

            _No_ , he chastised himself. _Focus on the moves. This is your routine. Learn it. Learn how to enact it. Concentrate!_

            The routine started out with a fluid step sequence that didn’t move quite so sharply as the moves that Derek had been skating before their practice began. But he moved with purpose, bending his body this way and that. It was insanely arousing to watch, coupled with the music (and, yes, his own personal lust towards Derek), and it intimidated Stiles.

            He caught himself zoning out a couple of times because his anxiety started to mount, his brain telling him that he could never pull it off and that he’d disappoint Derek and then Derek would leave and it would be Stiles’ fault for pulling Derek out of the skating world and, and, and —

            Stiles took a deep breath, told himself to focus.

            Derek jumped singles where Stiles knew he would have to be completing triples, in the second half of the program. Stiles knew he had good stamina, after years of nothing but ice skating, but it still concerned him just a little.

            Stiles found himself in the break of the boards as Derek completed the routine, skates on the ice before he’s even realized it. Derek skated up to him as he silenced the music and asked, “So? How was it?”

            Stiles balked, his mind going blank of all words. “Uh, very…eros,” he came up with.

            Derek rolled his eyes, but his huff of breath sounded a bit like a laugh, so at least he hadn’t offended his coach.

            “Right. So I’m thinking for the program composition we will stick with the jumps that you know. For now, we will only practice the quadruple toe loop. The Salchow can wait.”

            Stiles clenched his jaw. “Excuse me?” Being offended by Derek’s blatant disregard to what he’d told him before, about wanting to do the Salchow, outweighed the flushing in his cheeks and the rapid being of his heart from being so close to Derek. Their skates were practically touching. When had Derek gotten so close?

            “For right _now_ ,” Derek emphasized, “I will not teach you anything you can’t do.” Stiles opened his mouth to retort, but Derek cut him off. “How many times have you fallen in a competition?”

            Stiles snapped his mouth shut and clenched his fists.

            Derek raised his eyebrows. “Hm? How many?” It was a rhetorical question, even though Derek pushed it, which made Stiles angry all the more. “You have the skill to win, Stiles.”

            That softened the blow, a little, and Stiles felt his shoulders sagging.

            “Why can’t you make it happen?” Derek probed, voice surprisingly gentle and kind.

            Stiles pursed his lips and looked away from Derek. “Probably,” he said to his skates, “because of my anxiety.”

            A soft caress over his jaw, then his cheek, shocked Stiles into looking back up. Derek’s gloved hand was outstretched and tilting his chin up so that they were looking face-to-face. “Anxiety is not something that can be cured.” Derek’s voice was like a second soft touch, his breath hitting Stiles’ cheek. “But confidence is something that can be bolstered, which will help soothe the anxiety you have.”

            Stiles held Derek’s gaze and nodded, swallowing thickly.

            “My job is to help make you feel confident in yourself.”

            Derek’s thumb rubbed back and forth on his cheek. His face was as blank as always as it drifted to Stiles’ bottom lip and pulled it slightly. Stiles couldn’t breathe. Derek was so close. They were now sharing the same space, and Stiles couldn’t even feel a cold wind with how overheated he felt.

            “No one in the world knows your true eros, Stiles.” Derek’s words were whispered, a secret shared between them. “It may even be a part of you that…you cannot remember, or have never realized was truly there.”

            Stiles wanted to lick his lips, mouth dry, but Derek was still touching his bottom lip with his thumb and he didn’t dare disrupt it. Derek’s eyes looked like liquid gold today, a drop in a sea of pale blues and greens. Derek’s eyelashes were long and dark shadows against his pale skin.

            “Will you show it to me soon?” Derek requested.

            _Yes_ , Stiles wanted to scream. _Jesus, take me now!_

            “Derek!” Natalie screamed instead, shocking them both away from each other. Derek hand fell away from Stiles’ face, and Stiles suddenly felt very, very cold. He rolled down his hoodie sleeves and rubbed his arms. He kept his eyes on the ice, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

            Lack of confidence. Heh. Yeah, obviously.

            “Yes, Natalie?” Derek called back to the girl, not sounding annoyed at their wrecked moment in the slightest.

            “Phone for you! Sister!” she said, her English a rare opportunity to be heard. Stiles would be more proud of how good she sounded at such a young age, if it weren’t for the circumstances.

            Derek nodded and dismissed her, and she skipped back into the front room.

            Stiles didn’t watch Derek as he excused himself and passed by him, capping sheathes over his blades before heading out into the front area.

            As soon as he was alone, Stiles sagged against the board and tried not to have a panic attack. His breathing was uneven, but it didn’t feel like it usually did when he was about to have an attack. This felt different. His heart was beating fast, he felt hot and sweaty all over, and it felt like there was something heavy in his gut.

            Loss, he realized, was what he was feeling. A loss of opportunity, to show Derek that he did have some confidence and he _could_ skate sexily and be sexy.

            Who was he kidding? Stiles never would have been able to make a move. He had been frozen, just taking what Derek was giving him. He wholly accepted it, of course, but he could have never reciprocated.

            Stiles ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily. He stepped off of the ice and reached for his bag and his water bottle taking a generous gulp before collapsing onto the bench. He’d hardly done anything today, and yet he felt as though he’d run a marathon. His face was still hot. Stiles held the cool water bottle up to his face and let the condensation chill his red cheek.

            _Will you show it to me soon?_

            Stiles scoffed and took another large gulp of water before switching the bottle to his other cheek. He’d have to find it first, whatever it was that would be his muse for the program. But as soon as he did, he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather show it to than to Derek.

            Watching Derek skate the choreographed routine, Stiles had imagined it like a story. A playboy enters a new town where every woman instantly falls for him, but he never accepts any of them. Finally, one woman with whom had tried to stay away had fallen into his whims. He accepted her, causing her to fall madly in love with him. But then the playboy cast the poor woman away, shattering her heart, and leaving to find his next conquest.

            Stiles didn’t see Derek as the playboy, but he was finding it hard not to see himself as the cast-away.

            “I apologize for that.”

            Stiles slowly looked back up at Derek and shrugged, showing his indifference.

            “It was Cora. Apparently, she called my cell phone, and when she couldn’t get through to me she just called here, knowing I would pick up. She is getting dinner tonight in the city and probably staying there for the night.”

            “That’s fine,” Stiles said, setting his bottle aside and standing back up, watching Derek take the covers off of his skates.

            “Let’s continue,” Derek commanded, stepping onto the ice without waiting for Stiles. “Now it’s your turn.”

            Stiles paused for just a second before he stepped back on too, following Derek without hesitation.

***

            A week had passed since Stiles and Derek had started on Stiles’ short program, and Stiles had been able to memorize all of the choreography. They still argued a little about the three jumps in the second half of the program, Stiles fighting hard for the quad Salchow, but overall there hadn’t been any major arguments between the two.

            Though Derek was new to this as well, it was clear that his many years in the competitive figure skating world had taught him many things. He wasn’t a coach that was very complimentary, nor was he one that was a tyrannical dictator. He fell on the other edge, a silent companion that helped Stiles out when he needed it, directed with a strong but not harsh voice, and showed Stiles respect as an adult and as an internationally ranked skater.

            Deaton had tactics similar to Derek. He had never been very verbose with compliments, but gave them out often if warranted. However, his instructions were often vague, and he never spent enough time with each skater individually, which left Stiles feeling less than fully aware. Because Derek was only coaching him, there was no worry of his attention being drawn to someone else (other than Natalie, who didn’t really count because she distracted them both). And though he didn’t often verbally compliment Stiles, his head nods and bitten-back smiles often spoke more than words could.

            Four days ago, Lydia had admitted to Derek and Stiles, when the pair had gone over to the Whittemore’s for dinner, that Ice Cathedral was not doing well, income wise. The boost in visitors thanks to Derek’s appearance was a huge help, but it seemed that they were probably going to barely break even for the quarter.

            Stiles wondered aloud if they could put up announcements regarding donations, also put on the spin that the church was an important historical monument to the town of Tarczyn. He was sure that the crowds of people waiting for Derek every day would be willing to donate some. Lydia liked the idea, but she admitted that as great as it sounded, it wasn’t going to be enough to set aside for the future, they would have to use it now.

            Derek had hummed, like he was thinking about something, and then after sharing a look with Natalie of all people suggested that they host an event. “An all-day skating event hosted by Stiles and I,” he elaborated.

            Stiles couldn’t help himself and started to argue that he’d never agreed to do anything with Derek of the sort, but Natalie’s cheer of excitement covered him up.

            “Event!” She shouted in English. “Event!”

            Stiles chuckled and reached across Derek to rub at Natalie’s head, messing up the smooth locks of blonde hair. “Yes. Event.”

            Stiles had turned to look at Lydia, to see what she thought, and her eyes were wide, shifting back and forth like she was already forming plans. “That sounds actually like the perfect thing. We can sell ads for donors to have their company name on the rink. We can host classes for kids and adults of all ages. Derek!” Derek glanced up at her over his wine glass. “You can teach! That’ll bring in a huge crowd!”

            Stiles cleared his throat loudly.

            “And you can help, Stiles,” Lydia added, amused. Stiles smirked at Derek, feeling victorious.

            “What’s this about an event?” Jackson asked, coming back from cleaning dishes in the kitchen.

            “To raise money for Ice Cathedral. Derek suggested we have an all-day event for donations!”

            Jackson grinned. “That sounds like a fantastic idea. In the evening, you two can skate! Have a little competition?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Stiles, and Stiles threw his napkin at him, ducking his head to hide his blushing face.

            Derek waved a hand in the air. “No, I would not compete,” he replied, shaking his head.

            “Oh.” Lydia and Jackson ducked their heads, ears going pink. They had obviously gotten too excited about seeing Derek skate one of his routines.

            “But Stiles,” Derek offered for him, _again_ , “could still skate. You could do Eros, give the people a little taste of what they will see this upcoming season with you.”

            Stiles didn’t hate the idea, actually. And really, anything to help keep Ice Cathedral afloat. That place was almost more home than his house. “I could do that,” he found himself agreeing.

            Lydia clapped her hands and grinned. Natalie saw this and must have assumed that the deal was sold, so she clapped as well, giggling and chattering on in Polish so quickly that Stiles was not able to keep up.

            “Yes, of course you can be in charge,” Jackson told her, apparently the only one of the three Polish-speaking adults in the room able to understand. Jackson winked at Lydia, who’s smile softened as she looked at her family.

            Stiles sighed, a little wistful. He was really happy that Lydia was so happy. Getting pregnant at nineteen was not part of Lydia’s plan, but she took on the responsibility without fail, Jackson at her side. Stiles had always been a little envious of how easy they made love look, but he always reminded himself that it just appeared that way. After all, he’d been there during their eight-month break up when they had started upper secondary school. There had been nothing easy about their love, especially in those early years.

            Still, he wished he could be that close with someone.

            Derek nudged him with an elbow, snapping him out of his thoughts, and Stiles smiled at him in thanks before tuning back into the conversation.

            The rest of the night was spent planning, and Stiles had gotten really excited about the whole thing. That was until he was lying in bed later that night, and he realized that doing his routine for a crowd of people meant that he had to _do his routine_. As in, the Eros routine that he still couldn’t perfect because he had no clue what to use as a muse.

            Sure, he had the technical parts down, and he’d even finally convinced Derek that he could do the quad Salchow, but that all meant nothing unless he could actually project some kind of feeling into his skating.

            So here he was, a day from performing, and he was still at a loss. Derek had said nothing since that first day about _showing him his eros_ , or whatever, and Stiles was kind of glad. He wanted to figure this out on his own, and constant reminders would only do the opposite of help. Not that he wasn’t already constantly reminding himself.

            Stiles found himself sitting in the living room, knees tucked up against his chest and head resting on his knees as he sat on the couch, watching a random nature documentary that the television had been left on and he was too tired to change.

            Derek came into the room and sat next to him. He watched the documentary as well, though he couldn’t understand what the narrator was saying. He seemed just as intrigued, however, and relaxed back into the couch cushions.

            Stiles yawned, his jaw cracking against his knees, and he winced at the ache. On screen, a group of kits were playing with each other as the mother fox watched them from a bit away, lazing in a patch of grass under the shade of some trees. The scene was cute and it made Stiles smile as he wiggled his legs closer to his body, curling up just a bit more for that extra bit of warmth. Derek shifted next to him, but continued to stay silent.

            The documentary moved on to talking about the mating habit of foxes, the slightly irritating voice of the narrator saying bluntly, “ _Male foxes court the vixens and often fight with other males during breeding season. The female chooses which one receives her favors._ _The males follow the female until she makes her decision.”_

            On screen, they showed a clip of two male foxes fighting each other, and Stiles winced at the blood. He wasn’t squeamish, but hurt animals were not something he enjoyed watching. The camera panned around, and standing proudly nearby was a vixen, chest puffed and tail flicking back and forth.

            _She looks so regal_ , Stiles thought. _That vixen has no issues with her sexual appeal_.

            “ _Vixens might copulate with more than one male, but chooses only one male as the partner for raising kits._ ” The narrator sounded even more bored.

            “That’s it!” Stiles shouted, startling Derek. “That’s eros! Right there!” He pointed at the television. “Vixens have tons of sex appeal! That’s what I need to become, a fox!”

            The room fell silent. Even the documentary was quiet for a moment, as if to give Stiles a second for his stupidity to hang in the air before it came crashing back down onto his face. Derek was staring at him, eyes open wide. His mouth was twitching, like he was trying not to smile, or laugh.

            It came crashing down.

            Stiles felt like he’d been hit, once the words he’d just said registered in his brain. It made sense in his head! Just, you know, not out loud.

            And in front of _Derek_ , too! Of all people, it had to be Derek. At least Cora would have made a joke about it and let Stiles work the embarrassment off. No, Derek had to sit there like what Stiles said made sense, trying not to smirk at him!

            The narrator came back. “ _Some foxes become life mates, while others might remain pairs for more than one season.”_

            Stiles sputtered, face feeling like it was on fire. “I. I’m sorry, I have no idea what I was thinking, I —”

            “No,” Derek cut him off by saying. “That’s good. Whatever works for you.” His lips were still twitching.

            Stiles wished the couch would just swallow him up, he felt so embarrassed. “I’m just gonna…” his voice trailed off as he unfolded himself from the couch and stood. “Have a good night, Derek,” he blurted before he ran from the living room, down the hall, and closed his bedroom door behind him. He leaned against the door, to catch his breath. He tilted his head back and banged it against the wood.

            “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he murmured as he pushed off from the door only to faceplant onto his bed and scream into his pillow. “A fox?! What was I even thinking?!”

***

            Derek watched, trying to hold back a chuckle, as a red-faced Stiles bolted from the room and closed himself into his bedroom. Once they were separated, Derek finally let out a breath and laughed, holding his stomach.

            He muted the television after a moment, because he was no interested in listening about squirrel sex despite the language barrier.

            The ridiculousness of the reality of the situation hit him like a train, and he laughed again for an entirely different reason.

            “He really doesn’t seem to remember,” Derek mumbled to himself as he wiped the tears away from the corners of his eyes. “Here I thought…” The words died in his mouth. He wiped a hand over his lips, chasing them away.

            Stiles was being absolutely ridiculous. Derek had complete and utter faith that he could pull off Eros without anything but himself. He had proof. He was tempted to pull out his phone and wave it in Stiles’ face and show it off, but…that would accomplish nothing.

            Maybe Stiles was just too embarrassed and preferred not to remember it? Or perhaps he only thought he managed to act so alluring because he was intoxicated? Whatever the reason, it was enough that Stiles didn’t feel confident in his sex appeal.

            If Derek were the same kind of person he had been before his family died, he would not have hesitated to prove to Stiles through physicality that he is sexy. But he’s not that confident kid anymore, and he’s certainly not the person to kiss someone after having only known them personally for so short a time.

            This is, of course, despite the fact that Derek was almost sure he fell in love with Stiles four months ago, at the Grand Prix Final Banquet.

            Derek unlocked his phone and scrolled through his photo albums until he got to the one titled “GPF 2021”. That night he’d thrust his phone at Bobby and demanded he take pictures, as he joined the dancing fray, feeling his heart beat double time like it never had before, a wide grin on his face.

            Bobby, of course, had taken close to five hundred pictures and videos in the span of six minutes. Derek had to delete many of them, because they were blurry or unrecognizable, but his favorite twenty he saved in a separate folder, for him to come back to. They helped to remind him that he could be happy, and he could feel free, and he could feel like he was still alive.

            He pulled up his favorite: a photo of him and Stiles, hands interlocked, bodies facing one another like they were doing the tango. Maybe they had been. Stiles’ grin was blinding as his other hand cupped Derek’s cheek. His tie was slipping from his shoulders, having been unknotted several drinks ago. Derek in the photo was staring at Stiles in admiration, like he was a revelation. Derek snorted at that thought. He kind of was.

            Derek had gone to the banquet because he was required to, especially since he had won gold in the competition it was honoring the day previous. He’d spent most of the day beforehand talking to Cora, letting her babble fill his empty hotel room as he laid on the huge king-sized hotel bed, too much space for one person to fill. Cora had been recently promoted in the company, so her workload had increased, which meant she couldn’t attend the Final competition with him like she had at Skate Canada and the Rostelecom Cup in Russia.

            He admired his gold medal for a moment, but it looked the same as the other four, the only difference being the ribbon in red and white. After a while, even the tangible proof that he was doing something extraordinary with his life was not enough.

            Bobby had to pull him out of the hotel room to get him down to the banquet hall where dinner was being served. He’d been greeted with a round of applause, everyone dressed to the nines in their best suits and cocktail dresses. The big-time sponsors all sat around chatting, and Derek had gotten pulled into conversation a few times, starting out being a moment of congratulations that eventually turned into discussions of politics that he honestly couldn’t care less about.

            And standing in the corner, looking solemn and quiet, was Stiles Stilinski, the skater who had turned away from him yesterday before Derek could say anything other than some one-off line about a picture. At his side was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin who had to be Stiles’ coach. He was saying something to Stiles, and though Stiles nodded, his gaze was cast aside, unresponsive. Derek had turned away, not wanting to see the visual representation of what he was feeling inside.

            An hour later, and his entire world was flipped upside down. Stiles must have gotten some drinks into him. A lot of drinks, probably. There were an impressive four rows of at least three glasses each emptied of champagne abandoned at the table Stiles had eaten dinner at with his coach. Some of the tables had been folded up and moved aside to clear the dance floor, but up until then not many people had taken advantage of it. But Stiles was now.

            Most people were ignoring the music thumping through the speakers, but not Stiles. He was loosened up, tie hanging around his neck like a scarf, jacket missing and top shirt buttons undone. He was rocking his body side to side to the beat, hips swinging in such a scintillating way that caught everyone’s eyes.

            Soon, Stiles was not the only one able to open up. He managed to pull two other skaters out of their shells and had them dancing with him as well. Stiles had a bottle of some kind of liquor in his hand that he’d snagged from behind the open bar, and he brought it to his mouth often, throwing his throat back, exposing the long column of his mole-spotted neck as he took large swallows that _had_ to burn going down.

            “Dance battle!” someone had shouted, and Stiles had gasped so loudly that Derek feared he would have an issue getting the air back out of his lungs. He’d sounded like a scandalized old woman. However, there was a huge wavering grin on his face, and he’d called back, “You’re on!”

            The music was turned up, some pop-y autotuned song that Derek had no interest in, though the thumping base was popular for the dancers. Stiles threw himself into the apparent dance battle before an opponent had even been chosen, sliding across the floor like he was still wearing skates on a floor of ice. He twirled, dipped himself, and started breakdancing surprisingly well. The majority of the high-class banquet attendees had pressed themselves against the far walls, pretending that these skaters were not embarrassing themselves by getting drunk and dancing. This high-class event had become much else very early in the evening.

            And it was _so_ much better than Derek thought it would be.

            Stiles breathed life back into the stuffy room with his free movements. And it was infectious. Derek found himself standing and inching closer to the “dance floor” once Stiles had finished off his bottle and cast it aside, allowing for both of his hands to be free to dance with now.

            When the song changed, the melody included violins, which apparently was Stiles’ cue to shout, “Waltz!” and cause his dancing friends to cheer with him. That was when Derek stepped in to fulfill that promise, his heart in his throat. He could feel Bobby’s gaze (and camera shutter) on him the entire time, but he ignored it as best he could. It didn’t take long for him to forget everything but the feeling of Stiles’ hands in his, his body pressed against Derek’s, his loud and boisterous giggles, and lively smile.

            When the song ended, Stiles bowed to Derek, and Derek bowed back at him, both sharing grins. Stiles’ tie was now shoved into his pants pocket, because it had fallen from around his neck when he had dipped Derek, and Derek had heroically caught it and shoved it in there. Stiles had giggled at the contact and pulled Derek up to stand before twirling him around.

            Derek needed a glass of water after that. He could feel his face burning, cheeks stinging from how wide his smile had been. But Stiles wasn’t going to let him go easily, now that he’d latched on to a dancing partner.

            “Der~ek!” Stiles sang his name like a beautiful melody. His name had never sounded so sweet, the roll of his ‘r’ causing Derek’s knees to go weak. “Zatańcz ze mną.[viii]”

            “I —I don’t —”

            “Wygrałem bitwę taneczną! Powinien dostać nagrodę.[ix]”

            Derek could not understand a word of his slurred Polish, but it was nice to listen to. So Derek just nodded, unable to stop smiling.

            Stiles wrapped himself around Derek, clinging to his neck, hips still shifting side to side to the music, like he was unable to stop himself. Derek hovered his hands over Stiles’ back, frozen for a second, before he let them rest on the small of his back gently.

            “My father is a community guard.” The sudden English shocked Derek, and he stared down at Stiles into his glassy gaze. “You should visit sometime. Tarczyn is beautiful. Wspaniały[x]…” Stiles hiccupped. “Piękny[xi].” He stared up at Derek, and it made Derek blush having such an intimate gaze set upon him.

            Stiles’ smile faltered for just a moment, and Derek wondered if he’d done something wrong, missed some sort of social cue.

            “Wygrałem, więc powinieneś być mój trener, Derek.[xii]”

            Stiles said those words like a vow, and Derek swallowed thickly and repeated them over and over in his head so that he would not forget them. He wanted to know what Stiles was saying to him. It felt like it was important.

            Just as quickly as it had disappeared, Stiles’ grin returned, and he squeezed Derek in a tight hug and buried his face into the crook of his neck. “Be my coach, Derek!” Stiles whispered into his ear, and Derek had shivered.

            He’d found he wanted to say yes.

            At some point, after Derek had retired back to his seat, his throat aching from laughter and his cheeks wet with happy tears, someone brought in a stripper pole, and, well, the night sort of dissolved after that. Derek had a few photos saved from that as well, which was exactly why he knew seeing Stiles four months later that he had gained weight since then. He had those abs on candid camera.

            Derek locked his phone, the screen going black, and he shoved it into his pocket. He’d come to blows with his thoughts on the night already. It was why he was here in Poland, after all.

            It was that look in Stiles’ eyes, he’d decided, was what solidified his fate.

            The muffled noises that had been coming from Stiles’ room had ceased, and Derek turned off the television fully before standing up and stretching out his back.

            After stopping in the bathroom to get ready for bed, Derek shuffled into the guest room. Cora was still up, laptop open on her lap as she clacked away. Derek ignored her as she ignored him as he dressed down into a pair of comfortable sleep pants and loose shirt, before laying down onto the bed next to her, pulling out his phone for something to do.

            “Heard some noise out there earlier. Everything alright?” Cora asked.

            Derek craned his neck to look up at her. Her eyes never strayed from her laptop screen, but she slowly raised an eyebrow the longer he went without responding.

            “Yes. Fine. Stiles just found some inspiration, is all,” he murmured, turning his gaze back to his Instagram feed. He’d forgotten about it after posting that picture of Ice Cathedral the day after he arrived. He scrolled through his notifications lazily.

            “So he found your GPF banquet photo album, then?” Cora asked innocently.

            Derek sighed heavily and pretended to bash his phone against his forehead. “I should have never told you about that.”

            “Mmm, maybe. But if you hadn’t, you know I never would have let you come here.”

            Stiles had posted a photo onto Instagram three hours ago, the flyer for Ice Cathedral’s fundraiser tomorrow. Derek liked the photo, and wondered if Stiles would see the notification immediately, or if he would see it in the morning. Would he smile? Would he not care?

            Stiles had liked his photo of Ice Cathedral, he realized when he scrolled down far enough to see Stiles’ own name in his notifications. Derek didn’t smile, but he did feel something warm in his chest.

            “Derek?” Cora called his name, and he hummed to acknowledge it. He’d forgotten that she’d said something. “Never mind,” she scoffed. Derek knew she was rolling her eyes, so he smacked her knee in retaliation and flopped over onto his side, back to her.

            A hand came down on the back of his head, but Derek ignored the swat and instead shared Stiles’ Instagram post to his Twitter feed.

            He ignored the thirty-some texts from Bobby, marking them as read.

* * *

[i] Tata – Dad (Polish)

[ii] Grá duit, freisin. – Love you, too. (Gaelic)

[iii] Cad é an ifreann? – What the hell? (Gaelic)

[iv] 46 degrees Fahrenheit

[v] Cześć kochanie. - Hello darling. (Polish)

[vi]Wygrałem, więc powinieneś być mój trener, Derek. – I won, so you should be my coach, Derek. (Polish)

[vii] Kurwa – Fuck (Polish)

[viii] Zatańcz ze mną. – Dance with me. (Polish)

[ix] Wygrałem bitwę taneczną! Powinien dostać nagrodę. – I won the dance battle! I should get a prize. (Polish)

[x] Wspaniały – beautiful, magnificent (Polish)

[xi] Piękny – beautiful, handsome (Polish)

[xii] Wygrałem, więc powinieneś być mój trener, Derek. – I won, so you should be my coach, Derek. (Polish)

 


	2. Chapter 2

***

            The event at Ice Cathedral went so smoothly that Stiles wondered why he had ever been anxious in the first place. Sure, there were some bumps, but overall the day was tons of fun. Stiles had never _seen_ the rink so packed with people, donors roaming the stands as they chatted, sipping hot chocolate. The ice was broken in half, one side for those who already knew how to skate and the other for those wanting to learn. That was where Stiles spent most of his day with Derek. Sometimes he’d be pulled away by Lydia or Natalie to go talk to someone, but most of the time he spent in his environment, having fun on the ice.

            Stiles remembered what it was like when he was growing up, how Ice Cathedral fostered his love for the sport, and he wanted that for these kids as well.

            In the morning until lunch, there was an open free skate for anyone to come in and skate as long as they paid the eighty-five zloty[i] entrance fee. Skate rentals were discounted, and if you donated (had a party of five or more) more than four hundred and twenty zloyts, you could rent skates for free. Jackson was in charge of the finances, as business was what he’d gone to college for, so he was the one dressed nicely in a suit jacket and tie, smooth-talking all of the big-time donors.

            The boards of the rink were plastered in brand new and fresh advertisements. Derek had gotten his sponsors to donate, so a large banner advertising Riedell skates hung right inside of the entrance, thanking them for their support. Stiles wasn’t as well know, so he didn’t really have any sponsors, especially since he had sort of disconnected himself from his previous support system. But he’d called Scott to tell him about the event, and Scott and Deaton pulled some strings and got a representative from ZUCA to come by and donate if he liked what he saw. Stiles proudly propped his ZUCA roller suitcase for his skates and outfits against the wall in the front entrance, displaying that rather than his usual duffel to show his support.

            Lydia got to teach some workshops with the younger kids after the open-skate, Natalie a commanding force at her side. Stiles loved seeing her back on the ice again. Lydia had never wanted to skate professionally, but she had natural skill that Stiles could never deny. Plus, she was great with the kids. Derek worked with the adults, though that was more like a meet-n-greet with Derek’s fans. Derek didn’t seem too bothered by it. When Stiles asked how he felt, Derek had just said that it was bringing in money to Ice Cathedral, so as long as they didn’t push too much he was okay with it.

            Because the weather was actually cooperating and it was a nice twelve degrees outside, they hosted a dinner in the early evening. During the dinner, Jackson held an auction.

            Derek had gotten shipped over from his apartment in Ireland a slew of his old costumes, so that Stiles could choose one to wear to perform. Stiles had been like a child again as he rummaged through all of the outfits, sprouting off facts that surrounded each one. Like the year Derek wore the outfit that resembled a bird with feathers falling down one side, Stiles and Lydia had attended their first competition, however it was a pairs skating event. They’d created a program off of one of Derek’s old routines. Stiles found himself spilling this secret and then blushing furiously while Derek looked at him, mouth tilted in amusement.

            Stiles kept quiet for a while as he picked through what felt like hundreds of outfits, until his fingers came in contact with something very shiny, and he pulled the black material from the pile. Stiles’ breath hitched when he saw it.

            “This is from your Junior World Championship,” he breathed, clutching the mesh and black spandex to his chest.

            Derek’s eyes shuttered, and Stiles remembered belatedly that that had been his first competition he’d won after his family’s passing. “Yes. That was,” Derek said simply, the words hiding so much from Stiles.

            Stiles held the costume up so that he could see it unfold. The right side of the costume, from the shoulder down to the arm, and a little over the side of the torso, was all black mesh and semi-see-through. Breaking out of the material, like they were growing were a cluster of crystals. There were some around the waist as well. The mesh transitioned in to regular black spandex over the left side of the torso and down the left arm, both sleeves ending in fingerless gloves. Over the right hip was a sash of cloth, imitating a skirt that would flow out when spun. It wasn’t overly sequined, though the crystals reflected the light from the ceiling in an appealing way. The bottoms also had a matching design, the mesh in a swirling pattern down the left leg.

            Stiles looked up at Derek, the material wrinkling under the force of his grip. “I want to wear this one,” he’d declared with conviction.

            Derek had stared at him for a short moment, making Stiles feel like he was being scrutinized. But then he nodded, once, and hummed in agreement. A smile broke across Stiles’ face and he’d excused himself to go and try it on, to make sure it would fit. It did.

            The rest of the costumes, save a select few, were shipped back. Those that Derek kept he offered up for the auction, with all proceeds going towards Ice Cathedral. Stiles swore Lydia almost burst into tears at hearing such a generous offer.

            The entire day was a success. The lawn outside of Ice Cathedral was filled with laughing and chattering people and kids. Stiles had never seen it so packed.

            “It’s about time to start getting ready,” Derek said as he saddled up to him.

            Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, confused for a second, before he tensed up, realizing what Derek meant. “Oh,” he breathed out, harshly. “Right.”

            Derek was frowning at him, which didn’t really help Stiles’ sudden rush of anxiety. But then Derek gripped his shoulder, squeezed it twice, before letting his hand fall to his side, fingers brushing down Stiles’ arm as it left. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you in there soon to help with your hair.”

            “Okay,” Stiles responded, a little breathless, and he floated through the open doors of Ice Cathedral. He snagged his bag on the way into the locker/changing room and slipped into a stall to change. There was no one else in there, he didn’t need to hide himself away. But Stiles needed a minute.

            Unfolding the costume from its protective bag, Stiles stared at it for a minute. He pictured Derek wearing it. He then pictured himself wearing it. He undressed and slipped into it, securing the loose pants around his waist, making sure that there were no bumps or ripples in the costume.

            Stiles stepped out of the stall and walked over to the mirrors above the sinks. His hair was a mess, tacky from dried sweat and strands sprung up every which way. He ran his fingers through it, to work out any knots. He tried not to look at his reflection. There were bags under his eyes, he knew, and he didn’t feel like covering them up.

            When Stiles turned back around, Derek stood in the middle of the room, waiting. Stiles reached into his bag and pulled out a hair comb before walking up to Derek and offering it to him. Derek held out his other hand, and Stiles sighed, grabbing the hair gel as well before passing it along.

            Derek sat him on one of the benches and stood behind him. Derek’s fingers in his hair was calming. Derek had short nails that scratched his scalp a little as he worked through some of the knots. The repetitive motion of the comb going through his hair was rather therapeutic. Once all of the tangles had been unknotted, Derek reached for the pot of gel and rubbed some between his fingers before he pressed them against Stiles’ hairline and pulled back through his hair. Stiles bit his lip to hold back the gasp that wanted to escape.

            He’d had coaches dress him for competitions before, had numerous people poking and prodding at his face to do makeup and what not. But there was something different about having Derek do this. Sometimes, Stiles forgot that Derek was his coach. So touches like this, though normal for such a relationship, felt intimate.

            “There’s just a few stray hairs, the I’ll be done,” Derek murmured, voice slow and measured like he was really concentrating on making Stiles’ hair look the best it could.

            “It’s fine,” Stiles said, standing up suddenly, making Derek take a step back from the bench. Stiles looked back at him, and a few wisps of hair fell into his face. “It looks good like this, right?”

            Derek’s eyes roamed his face, like he wanted a deep analysis before giving his conclusory statements. “Yes,” he finally said, setting the comb and pot of gel onto the bench. “You’re ready.”

            Taking hold of the handle on his bag, Stiles wheeled it behind him as they exited the locker room and headed for the rink. Lydia would be corralling people back inside any moment now, and Stiles wanted to not get caught in the rush of people to the stands.

            He stood back from the boards after lacing up his skates and did some stretches, rolling his hips individually and stretching his arms so that his joints wouldn’t be stiff.

            As the rink began to fill, Stiles’ warm-up petered off until he could do nothing but watch as person after person took their seat on the metal benches surrounding the rink. They were all here to see him. This was no longer about Derek. It was Stiles’ turn to show what he was capable of.

            Stiles caught some movement off to his right, and he spotted his father waving at him as he took his seat, having come straight from work. Cora was at his side. She didn’t wave or look as thrilled as his father did, but she nodded at him, and Stiles smiled back and nodded too.

            Soon, the doors were closing as everyone had taken their seats, preparing to watch Stiles give them a sneak peak of what he was going to do this season. There was a lot riding on this, Stiles realized. People were going to expect a flawless performance from someone being coached by Derek Hale. Stiles wasn’t optimistic he could give that. They’d only been working on Eros for a week and a half.

            It felt like there were a million people staring at him. Stiles’ fists clenched at his sides, and he took measured breaths. This was not the time for his anxiety to kick in. Though he really should have expected this. He’d been worrying about it for days now, was it any wonder that when the day finally came he’d still be anxious about it as well?

            His vision started to swim, and Stiles closed his eyes tightly, squeezing them until he could see little spots dancing in front. He breathed in through his nose, held it, and then exhaled out of his mouth. He pictured a fox, jumping happily, excited; kits playing and roughhousing; a vixen standing victorious over her quarreling suitors. Anxiety had no place here, now when skating to Eros.

            Stiles pictured that vixen and her bright orange fur, with confidence in every step as she greeted the winner of the fight for her affections before brushing past him, tail flicking him in the face, breaking his heart.

            “Stiles.”

            Stiles’ eyes fluttered open, and Derek swam into view. His hands were on Stiles’ shoulders, and his voice was soft. “It’s time. I’m going to introduce you, okay?”

            Stiles nodded and covered his mouth with a mesh-covered hand. His thumb brushed over his bottom lip, a mockery of the touch Derek had once laid upon him.

            Derek turned around, and it was then that Stiles noticed he had put on his skates at some point as well, his golden blades bouncing off of the ice as he glided towards center ice. There was a microphone in his hand. The crowd cheered. Stiles released a shuddery breath.

            “Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming tonight,” Derek spoke, paused for the interpreter (Jackson) in the booth to repeat his words in Polish before continuing. “Ice Cathedral appreciates your patronage and support, and we hope that you will continue to enjoy what Ice Cathedral has to offer after today.”

            Stiles got as close to the board as possible and leaned into it, shaking out his legs, preparing for his entrance.

            “I am very pleased to introduce to you all Stiles Stilinski. I have not been with Stiles for very long, but what I have seen I know will impress.”

            Stiles snapped his head up as his jaw dropped, shocked. Derek? Being complimentary? Was he just putting on a show for the donors, or did he actually mean it?

            “Today you will all be able to see what we have been working on, as thank you for your support. We here at Ice Cathedral would appreciate if you would turn off all cell phones and cameras. No video is allowed to be taken.” Derek turned his head and shot a look at Natalie in the sound booth, next to her parents. The crowd chuckled once an amused Jackson had repeated his words, and Natalie’s face went bright red.

            Another pause. “Stiles will be skating to On Love: Eros. Please give him a warm welcome.”

            The audience burst into applause, but Stiles only had eyes for Derek as he turned back to skate off of the ice, flipping the microphone’s switch as he did. Stiles was waiting for him at the break in the boards, and once Derek stepped off of the ice, he was almost pressed against Stiles with how close they were standing.

            “Are you ready?” Derek asked.

            Stiles took a deep breath, steeled himself, and declared, “I will be the most alluring vixen you have ever seen. So please, don’t take your eyes off of me for even a second.”

            Derek’s eyes widened, and though the rink had gone dark, lights dimmed for the performance, Stiles could still make out the movement.

            Stiles took the chance and pulled Derek close, wrapping his fingers into the collar around Derek’s neck and pulling him close, so that their noses were touching. “Promise,” he demanded, voice barely more than a breath.

            Derek looked like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. Something warm filled Stiles. It felt like victory.

            “Of course.” Derek’s words were whispered with conviction. His hand curled around the one Stiles had grasped to his shirt. His fingers were cold. He wasn’t wearing gloves. “My fox.”

            Stiles forced himself to uncurl his hand from Derek’s shirt and take a step back, to allow Derek to move from the break so that he could step onto the ice.

            Derek’s hand held on to his for just a beat too long before he released it, and it left behind a tingling sensation. Stiles stepped onto the ice, Jackson in the sound booth reintroduced him, and Stiles put on his smile as he threw his hands up and waved at the crowd.

            He could hear his father whistling from the stands, and he couldn’t hide the grin. His dad rarely got to see him skate live, and it was a thrill to have that built-in support, like he was standing right next to him.

            Stiles acknowledged Jackson, like he would the judges would there have been any, before getting into his starting position, head tilted down and to the side, hip cocked, arms in a lazy drop at his sides, knee popped.

            The strum of a guitar brought Stiles to life. His brought his arms up and then smoothed them down his sides, as if he were smoothing down a dress he’d just put on. The tambourine shook and Stiles arched his body, imagining a vixen’s waving tail as it flounced by a potential mate, and recreated the movement with his arms, showing off his face and body. He shifted his feet, took a few steps back before he raised his head and snapped it to the side. He made eye contact with Derek who was behind the boards, leaning against them, staring at him with a heavy look in his eyes. Stiles smirked at him as the music grew quiet. An appreciative whistle echoed across the ice as Derek pursed his lips, and Stiles felt a shiver run down his spine. _I know who I’m dancing for._

            The violin chimed in, and Stiles spun away, falling into the music and letting his body recreate the new story he wanted to tell.

            This was no longer about the playboy. Instead, with skirt perfectly pressed and hair just a tad bit messy, this was about a woman who drew the attention of every man in her village. She kissed them all on the cheek, but never on the lips. She left them all hanging, preferring to toy rather than to keep. She kept them on their toes as she came through — _step sequence into a camel spin_ — but never again acknowledging them outright. 

            Then, one night, she found a man who was as disinterested in her as she was in the men who fought after her. So she opened her arms to him — _spread eagle into_ — and he fell into them — _a triple axel_.

            It was a whirlwind romance, more time spent in the bedroom than out of it, and the man who had never wanted it found himself falling madly, deeply — _quadruple Salchow_ — in love with her— _stepped out of it, hand down on the ice,_ dammit.

            _Stay calm. A mistake means nothing compared to my charm. I caught the elusive man, did I not?_

            Their love seemed everlasting, the both of them sharing the same breath — _quadruple toe loop_ — and the same space, forever — _into a triple toe loop_ — intertwined. _Nailed it._

            The vixen was not one to be tied down, however. As soon as she had the man’s heart, she let it shatter — _camel spin, flying sit spin_ — and tossed him aside, preparing to find a new conquest.

            Stiles stopped, completed his spin combination, and then finished, arms wrapped around himself like a personal embrace, head turned to the side, gaze distant.

            His body shuddered and heaved as he tried to catch his breath, He could feel sweat sticking to every inch of his body. He uncurled his arms, blinked, and the rush of noise of the audiences’ cheers assaulted him suddenly.

            He could distinctly hear Natalie’s shouts, and saw that she was now up in the stands with his father and Cora, who were also clapping and cheering. Stiles released a laugh on a breath, chest still heaving as he raised a weak arm to wave, spinning to address the entire audience and thank them for their support.

            “Stiles.”

            One voice stood out from beyond the cheers. Stiles turned to face Derek as he took slow, deliberate breaths. Adrenaline was pumping through his system. He felt like he was high. Stiles had never had that much fun skating a competition routine before. It was exhilarating.

            Stiles skated towards the break in the boards, thinking to himself that it would have to do as a mock kiss-and-cry for now. Once he was within reach, Derek pulled him into a hug, tucking Stiles head beneath his chin as he squeezed him. The embrace was over so quickly, Stiles didn’t even have a chance to react, mouth agape as Derek pulled back, hands on his shoulders.

            “That was the most arousing fox I have ever seen,” the older man joked, voice low and serious. “It was good.” His eyebrow arched, and Stiles tensed. “But what was that with the quad Salchow? You stepped out of it, you should really have more confidence in yourself now to be able to pull that off considering how much you wanted to put it into the routine. And that triple axel was the worst I’ve seen from you so far, I don’t even know how you pulled that off, but —”

            “Derek,” Stiles interrupted him, raising a hand and hovering it over Derek’s mouth. Derek quieted, though he didn’t look happy about it. “Thank you,” Stiles told him, a smile growing on his face despite the beratement he had just received. “Thank you,” he said again, because he meant it. “Let’s go thank everyone else for coming, yeah?”

            Derek stared at him, and Stiles could not read the expression on his face. Because of that, he dropped his gaze and took some more deep breaths.

            “Wipe your face first, you’re covered in sweat,” Derek commanded, throwing a towel in his direction. “But then, yes, we should.”

            Derek and Stiles skated back onto the ice together. Stiles had shrugged his hoodie overtop of his costume, the high of the performance having worn off quickly and he suddenly felt rather exposed. Derek was a warm presence at his side, however, so it helped.

            “Once again, we would like to thank you all for your attendance today, but especially this evening. Ice Cathedral appreciates your time and donations, and we hope to see you all back here again soon. Stiles?” Stiles jumped a little, not expecting to be addressed. He’d just wanted to wave while Derek did his ending speech. This was not part of the plan. “Is there anything you’d like to say to your supporters?”

            Stiles took the microphone from Derek with shaking hands. Derek cupped a hand around his trembling fingers and wrapped his other arm around his shoulders. It felt like Derek was kind of showing him off and comforting him at the same time. It was a weird sensation, but it bolstered Stiles’ confidence.

            “Thank you all, again, for your support. I, um…” Derek’s hand around his bicep squeezed, and Stiles found his words. “With Derek at my side, I plan to win the Grand Prix Final for Ice Cathedral, and for all of Poland. Your support means everything. Thank you.” Stiles looked up at Derek. “Dziękujemy za nieustające wsparcie.[ii]”

            He quickly turned back to look at the crowd and waved, then pointed to his father and waved even harder. His dad started laughing, and even though Stiles couldn’t hear it over the noise of everyone else, he could feel the joy anyway.

            Derek slipped the microphone from his hand, separating their bodies, and the rink became the ice box it was supposed to be. “You should go shower and get changed. I have a feeling we will be shaking a lot of hands tonight.”

            Stiles saluted at Derek, grinning. “Yes, Coach Sir.”

            Derek frowned and swiped at his head, but Stiles dodged it, giggling as he skated for the exit. He could hear Derek following him, but the pace was measured, not one of chase. Stiles looked over his shoulder and saw Derek making a lazy figure eight on the ice. His face had fallen, and he looked sad. Stiles wondered how much Derek missed being on the ice like this.

            Stiles felt a pang in his heart. Was he holding Derek back like everyone said he was?

            Of course, Stiles read the articles. The slam pieces about how a no-good two-bit skater from fuck-nowhere Poland had stolen The Legendary Derek Hale away from skating. How could he not? Every time one of them “quoted” an inside source, he wondered if what they said was true, if Derek was using him as an excuse to take a break for whatever reason.

            If that was true…well, it wouldn’t be the best thing, but at least then Stiles would have something to hold on to. There were still so many questions Stiles had surrounding why Derek was even here in the first place. If Derek was using him as an excuse, he just wanted to _know_ that. He certainly wouldn’t ask him to not be his coach if that were the reason.

            It was the false hope. That was what the real problem was. Because the longer Derek stayed without a concrete explanation for his reasons, the more hope Stiles felt that, maybe, Derek was here for him and him only. Not for any reason other than he saw something in that _stupid video_ and decided he wanted to coach Stiles, full stop. Nothing else.

            Yeah, it was the hope that was going to kill him some day. Either that or some overzealous fan of Derek’s that wanted him out of the way so that Derek could go back to skating. Or Derek’s old coach, that was a possibility as well.

            Derek looked at the ice with a wistful gaze, and it made something horrific churn in Stiles’ stomach.

***

            Stiles woke up the morning after the event at Ice Cathedral, and the first thing he thought about was how expensive Derek Hale’s coaching fee was going to be.

            However much it was, it would never be cheap enough to justify getting up at _five in the morning_ to begin training.

            Not to mentioned they’d been out late last night, helping to clean up Ice Cathedral after all of the people had left and eating a very late dinner with the Whittemores wile Natalie slept, head cushioned in Derek’s lap.

            “Der~ek,” Stiles whined as soon as he spotted the older man in his kitchen, casually sipping a mug of hot coffee. “It’s too early. Not even my father is awake, yet.”

            “You want to win, don’t you?”

            Stiles frowned. That was what Derek had said last night, too, right before they’d gone to bed, the hour far too close to midnight for Stiles’ liking.

            “Right now, I want to win at sleeping,” he grumbled to himself in Polish, just so Derek wouldn’t snap at him. It didn’t work, because Derek smacked the back of his head anyway as Stiles ducked into the fridge to pull out some eggs to make for breakfast. He wasn’t hungry yet, the hour too early, but he knew he’d need something in his stomach before Derek started working him over.

            Stiles shot a glare at Derek as he roughly shut the fridge door, the glass condiment bottles in the door shelves rattling and clinking off one another at the force. Derek smirked back at him over the rim of his coffee mug. Stiles turned away, ignoring the fact that that small twitch of lips made his heartbeat trip over itself.

            Stiles drew out the time for as long as he could, getting a full twenty minutes to make breakfast and eat, before Derek was shoving a thermos of coffee into one hand and a water bottle into another and forcing him out the door.

            Stiles downed the warm drink on the walk there. Derek spent most of the trip talking on the phone to someone back in Ireland, his country’s language sounding like poetry even though from the tone it sounded like he was dealing with finances, or some other nasty thing he wanted nothing to do with.

            As Stiles was lacing up his skates, Derek instructed that they would be ironing out all of the kinks he mentally noted from the Eros routine last night, starting with the jumps. “And we’ll _start_ with that Salchow,” Derek decided, no room for argument in his voice.

            Stiles didn’t really have the energy to argue, the caffeine from the coffee having not kicked in yet, so his only response was a crack of his jaw as he loudly yawned. He covered his mouth with a hand belatedly, having heard at one time in his childhood that leaving your yawns exposed in front of an instructor was a sign of disrespect.

            Stiles did his stretches before stepping onto the ice where Derek was already waiting for him, his brows low on his forehead. He was obviously agitated, but Stiles was still too tired to care too much.

            As he suspected, Derek worked him hard. As the sun rose, illuminating the rink in a warm yellow glow, Stiles’ body began to wake up. Every time he hit the ice from an over-rotated jump or misstep, the cold shocked him back to life.

            “You tend to miss your jumps when something’s on your mind,” Derek noted as Stiles picked himself up from the ice, having flubbed a quadruple toe loop.

            Stiles huffed in amusement and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he lied and waved a hand about as if to make his statement sound more truthful.

            Derek’s mouth pursed. His eyebrows looked especially dark and bushy today, Stiles noted as he skated past him to try the jump again, this time landing it and, for fun, making it a combination with a triple.

            They spent another hour on the jumps before Derek called for a break, and Stiles threw himself onto the bench and reached desperately for his bottle of water, downing half of it in one go.

            Derek stared at him, and Stiles twitched, feeling like he was an insect under a microscope. “What?” he asked, when Derek continued to stay quiet and contemplative.

            “I was thinking about the quads. Perhaps you shouldn’t do three quads in your free program.”

            Stiles’ jaw dropped. “What? I need them! Otherwise my points —”

            Derek dabbed at the back of his neck with a clean towel and tossed one at Stiles, cutting off Stiles’ defense. “Just get a perfect with the program components, and you’d be fine with just one quad,” Derek put in before Stiles could recover.

            Stiles dropped his head, breaking Derek’s and his eye contact as he wiped at his face and the back of his neck. Get a perfect score, heh. That was easy for Derek Hale to say. _He_ never had to sacrifice quads to get a better overall score.

            Then again, Stiles had to remind himself that he was nowhere near Derek’s level, despite the fact that he lived to challenge Derek each and every day, and had grown up with the thought of skating next to him in the same competitions. Maybe once or twice, he thought about beating Derek, and how great it would feel to surpass such a fantastic skater, but a reality check was never far behind.

            Stiles just couldn’t lose those quads. This was his chance to prove himself to the world that he could come back better than ever, with a powerhouse coach at his side. Starting off weak would be like he’d given up before the competition had even began. No, this was his year of change. He was not going to stop with the short program.

            “Stiles.”

            Derek sure called his name a lot. But Stiles had to admit, it was an effective way to snap him out of his thoughts that usually only spiked his anxiety. So he was grateful. That was, until he looked up to see Derek much too close to his face, crouched down in front of him, so that their faces were level. Derek was balancing on hard floor in skates, without covers over the blades. Stiles tried not to look impressed at the lack of wobbling or wavering in his ankles.

            “Stiles, do you know why I decided to come out here and be your coach?”

            Stiles’ eyes widened. They were going to talk about this _now_? At eight in the morning when Stiles had gotten four hours of sleep? He was not mentally prepared for this conversation! He enjoyed being at least three beers deep before having rejection throw in his face.

            Stiles swallowed back the lump that had formed in his throat. It was ridiculous for him to be feeling this emotional right now. He knew the outcome of this conversation, now he just had to hear it first-hand.

            “No,” Stiles admitted, voice sounding sad even to his own ears, and he mentally winced, wondering if Derek thought he sounded pathetic.

            “It was the music,” Derek said, which explained absolutely nothing.

            “Music?” Stiles asked, bewildered. The music he skated to in the last Final?

            “Yes. When you skate, you create music with your body. Hell, when you even move, there is something about your movements that makes me feel like I’m listening to a symphony.”

            Stiles’ breath hitched. This was not where he thought this conversation would go, at all.

            “I believe that we can make use of that in your free program. By making it high-difficulty, your music will be heard by everyone.”

            Stiles blinked rapidly. He still felt like Derek hadn’t answered the question Stiles was wondering about. But he had to admit, what Derek was saying was enough to make Stiles’ heart want to up and move to Ireland.

            “I can do this for you. When I came, I had a gut feeling you could pull it off, and you proved me right last night with your short program.”

            Stiles rubbed his towel over his face, to try and chase away the look of shock that he knew he was wearing. “Um…” He wasn’t sure how to react. “Should I be thanking you or something?”

            Derek’s expression faltered, and the frown was back. He stood up smoothly without unbalancing, now towering over Stiles. Stiles stood up too, not wanting to feel boxed in. Derek took a step back, giving him some needed space. “You will thank me with your payment when this is all over.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes. Always the reminder of that stupid coach fee —

            “After you win the Grand Prix Final,” Derek added and smirked at Stiles’ surprised raise of eyebrows.

            “Once we finish up here today, I want to start looking into crafting your free program, starting with the music you want to skate to.”

            Stiles faltered as he stepped back onto the ice and was relieved that Derek had his back to him, so he didn’t notice.

            “You —You want me to pick the music?” he asked, feeling slightly vulnerable.

            Derek looked back at him, arms crossed over his chest, a completely unimpressed look on his face. “Is that such a surprise?”

            Stiles flailed his arms as he shouted, “Well, you’re the coach! My coach has always picked out my music before!”

            “Well, then I guess it’s time for a change, then,” Derek said abruptly.

            Stiles snapped his mouth shut and lowered his eyes, cowing to Derek’s words.

            He was looking for change, wasn’t he?

***

            Derek and Stiles finished up before three, clearing out of the rink before the after-school kids’ classes would begin. Their walk home was quiet, but companionable. The entire time they were walking Derek spent pondering why Stiles seemed to reluctant to have anything to do with his routines’ creations. It probably stemmed from his lack of confidence and anxiety issues, but he’d been doing so well these last couple of weeks! Derek had seen new life breathed into Stiles’ moves, the man’s determination fueling him. It fueled Derek, watching Stiles practice a jump over and over until he either perfected it or Derek forced him to stop and take a break before going at it again.

            They stopped by a little grocery shop on the way home and purchased some kielbasa sandwiches for a late lunch/early dinner. Stiles kicked open the front door with his foot, as he had one hand on the key to unlock it and the other stuffing the food into his mouth. Derek had offered to hold the sandwich for him, but Stiles was one stubborn feisí[iii]. It was endearing, a little.

            Derek caught the door with his foot as soon as Stiles got it open wide enough, just so it wouldn’t automatically close on them. Cora was sitting in the living room on the couch, and when they came in, dumping their bags at the front entrance, she craned her neck over the back of the couch to look at them.

            “Aww, I’m hungry,” she whined, making grabbing motions at Stiles’ sandwich which he easily dodged out of the way of.

            “Derek bought you one, moocher,” Stiles said, and then smirked at Cora’s huff.

            Stiles and Cora had quickly relaxed around each other, the two of them easily finding common ground. Probably because they were both arseholes. Though, who was Derek to talk, really.

            “Stiles, eat quickly,” Derek demanded as he wiggled Cora’s wrapped sandwich (no onions) out of his bag and handed it over to her.

            She squealed in delight, and Derek couldn’t help but stop and watch the innocent happiness she displayed in that moment. It had taken a lot of years for her to become someone who could laugh and smile again, the same as Derek. After the death of their family, thankfully they were able to live together, but because Derek was the older one, Cora looked to him for how she should feel. Derek was a bad example, and Cora reacted the same as he did. She almost flunked out of a year of school due to her misbehavior. At least she hadn’t needed behavior counseling, like Derek had. They did attend family therapy a few times, though, a year after their family had passed.

            These happy moments weren’t rare, now, but with how busy they both were, Derek often wasn’t within the vicinity to bask in her smiles. Cora looked up at him, laughter choking her throat, and she stopped, reading his expression.

            “ _Derek_! Why do I have to rush, we just finished practice!”

            Derek had forgotten that he’d said something to Stiles at all.

            Cora jerked her head towards the kitchen as she took a bite of her sandwich. “Go corral your fox,” she said around a mouthful of kielbasa.

            Derek scrunched up his nose at the disgusting display and flicked her forehead for the ‘your fox’ comment, but otherwise did as she advised.

            He found Stiles draped across the kitchen counter, eating his sandwich with a look of bliss on his face, like the taste was orgasmic.

            “I told you to eat fast,” Derek commented, making Stiles choke because of his sudden appearance.

            “And _I_ asked why,” Stiles countered, reaching for a napkin to wipe his face.

            “Because I want to talk to you about the free program. And I want to talk to your old coach, too.”

            Stiles’ body jolted. “Deaton? Why?”

            “Because I need to send you back to him,” Derek replied in a deadpan, “so I need his address.”

            Stiles’ expression faltered for the briefest of second before he glared at Derek and went back to eating, deliberately turning his back to Derek.

            “I want to ask him about how he went about choreographing your free program,” Derek said seriously this time. “I’m also curious as to why he always chose your music. That is what you said, right?”

            The tips of Stiles’ ears had gone a little bit red, and Derek had to resist the urge to rub them between his fingers to feel the warmth. “That’s what I said,” Stiles grumbled, repeating him, before shoving a huge bite into his mouth.

            Once they both finished, Stiles reluctantly passed his phone over to Derek so that he could pull up Deaton’s contact and give him a call, Stiles confirmed that it wasn’t too early in America right now to call, that Deaton would be at the rink by this hour.

            As Derek pressed down on the phone number, dialing it, Stiles suddenly shot his hand out to grab the phone. His eyes were wide open and wild, like he’d suddenly remembered something very important and now all hope was lost.

            “What is it?” Derek asked, over the sound of the ringing phone.

            “I. Can I please talk to him first?” Stiles pleaded his request as he white-knuckled his phone.

            “Yeah, sure, of course,” Derek replied, releasing his hold on the device as it rang a fourth time, the ring cut off by a click.

            “Stiles. I wasn’t expecting your call.” Deaton’s voice, though slightly distorted by the connection and the speakerphone, was steady, words chosen deliberately.

            “Uh, hey, Deaton. It’s been a while,” Stiles chuckled, though it fell flat as he rubbed the back of his neck, obviously feeling uncomfortable.

            “Since the Grand Prix Final, yes, it’s been a while.”

            Stiles avoided looking at Derek even though Derek snapped his eyes over to look at him in surprise. Had Stiles really just dropped Deaton the moment he lost? He must have been really heartbroken.

            “I hear you have a new coach. Derek Hale.”

            Derek carefully gauged Stiles’ reaction. Stiles didn’t tense up or immediately stutter over an explanation. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before nodding. He then seemed to realize that Deaton couldn’t actually see him, and muttered a belated, “Yes.”

            “Hmm,” Deaton hummed, and apparently, this made Stiles irritated.

            “I’m sorry,” Stiles said.

            “Why are you apologizing?” Deaton asked, speaking Derek’s thoughts.

            Unable to stay a silent bystander any longer, Derek pressed his shoulder against Stiles’ as he leaned towards the phone. “Hello, Coach Deaton.”

            Stiles looked like he wanted to say something about Derek’s sudden interjection, but whether his thoughts were negative or positive, Derek didn’t know.

            “Derek.” His greeting, compared to Stiles’, was less than warm. He probably should have expected that from his student’s ex-coach. “Having fun playing coach? Ready to stop?”

            The words stung a little, but Cora had been throwing insults like that at him for a few weeks now, so he was getting used to hearing such things. Coming from someone who knew the job, however, left a different scar. He elected to ignore the jab. He had no interest in being involved in tension, even if he wasn’t at fault.

            “Why did you choose Stiles’ program music instead of him choosing it himself?” Derek asked, wanting to get on with the whole reason for the correspondence. Derek kept his eyes off of Stiles, as tempted as he was to check his reaction to Deaton’s jab at his coaching. He wondered if Stiles felt the same way at all. Though, knowing Stiles, the man wouldn’t hesitate to admit if Derek was at fault for something, so he was probably fine in that area.

            Deaton was quiet for a moment, and Derek wondered if the connection had dropped. But then his voice came back suddenly, the noises in the background that had been there previously more muffled. “I usually choose the music for my skaters, though I do give them the option to present to me music they want to compete with.”

            “I see,” Derek murmured.

            “Stiles only ever brought me one piece, composed by an acquaintance if I remember correctly.”

            That made Derek falter. He turned to look at Stiles, eyes narrowing in confusion. Why had Stiles neglected to tell him this? Stiles was avoiding his stare expertly, munching on the last of the bread from his sandwich.

            “The piece wasn’t bad,” Deaton admitted, drawing back Derek’s attention. “But when I asked him whether he felt he could win with it, he changed his mind and asked for me to select the music instead.”

            Ah. So Stiles had tried to, but his lack of confidence had stopped him.

            As if Deaton was reading his thoughts, the coach said, “Stiles lacked confidence in himself. Even when I told him time and time over that he should trust himself, but —.”

            Derek held back a scoff. You couldn’t just _tell_ someone with anxiety to get over it, it didn’t work that way. Derek wondered if Deaton knew about Stiles’ anxiety. Being his coach for five years, it would have been hard to not get to know Stiles that well. But maybe Stiles had been good at avoiding talking about it.

            “Right, thanks,” Derek cut him off, voice clipped. He didn’t want to hear any more of Deaton’s thoughts on Stiles’ lack of confidence.

            Derek reached for the red button on the phone, but Stiles pulled the phone back and shouted into the microphone, “Wait, Deaton!”

            “Yes, Stiles?”

            Stiles took a deep breath. “I’m going to redeem myself at this year’s Grand Prix Final,” he said, voice filled with so much conviction that Derek couldn’t help but smile.

            Deaton chuckled, his electronic voice cracking over the phone. “That was what I had hoped to hear five months ago.”

            Stiles hung up the call then and sunk back onto his stool, shoulders drooping. “Thank God,” he murmured. “I was worried. I couldn’t bring myself to call him, since then.”

            Derek narrowed his eyes at him. He leaned forward and plucked the phone from Stiles’ fingers. “Stiles,” he said on a growl. “I want to hear this piece you chose.”

            Stiles froze, fingers stretched out mid-air to get back his phone.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek pressed. “I’m you coach, aren’t I?”

            Stiles said nothing, mouth flapping like words were impossible to form, before he took Derek by surprise and snatched his phone back and then bolted from the room.

            “Hey! I’m not done with you yet!” Derek yelled after him, stomping like a petulant child.

            “Break time!” Stiles shouted back.

            “Shut up!” Cora shouted from the living room. “God, you two,” she murmured, loud enough for Derek to hear and get irritated by.

            Derek looked down at his empty hand and curled it into a fist. That wasn’t too insane of a demand, was it? Perhaps the music was a sensitive subject to Stiles? Either way, Derek had been careful not to give Stiles a reason to mistrust him, or feel like he couldn’t confide in him.

            Stiles had certainly earned Derek’s trust, after a couple of weeks of housing him and his sister. It was almost impossible for him not to trust Stiles, now, knowing as much as he does about him.

            Derek wondered how much of Derek Stiles actually knew. He knew Stiles was a fan of his, so he probably knew about Derek’s skating life and what happened to his family. But had Derek tried to confide in Stiles at all? Try to open up the gates on his end?

            Not enough, Derek decided. As much as he loathed to let people in, this was a special case. _Stiles_ was special. Derek didn’t want this opportunity to slip through his fingers.

***

            “So Derek tells me that you two have been working on your free program for the past few days,” Lydia said to Stiles a few days later while Stiles was sitting in the main entrance of Ice Cathedral, untying his skates.

            Stiles wiggled a foot out of his skate and it came loose in his hands with a tug. He set it beside him with a sigh. He circled his ankle as he reached for his other boot to untie it next.

            Lydia cleared her throat, clearly expecting an answer, and Stiles felt his face go red.

            “Um, yes we have.”

            “Did you decide on your music?” Lydia probed further, taking a seat on the bench opposite Stiles and staring him down.

            Stiles removed his other skate and set it next to its twin before rubbing the soreness out of his foot through the sweat-soaked sock. It felt really gross, actually, but the massage felt better so he ignored the weirdness.

            “Not officially, no,” Stiles said on a groan as he dropped his foot to the ground. He reached for his bag and pulled out the towel he used for cleaning off his skates. He would have to sharpen them as well, but he’d rather do that at home later.

            Lydia arched an eyebrow. “What’s the _un_ official music, then?” she inquired.

            Stiles looked up at her sheepishly. “I had him listen to a piece I had arranged by a friend while I was away at school. His reaction was…underwhelming, to say the least.” Stiles winced, remembering Derek’s expression.

            His face had been pinched, one earbud in his ear and the other dangling down his chest, Stiles’ phone in his hand. The music tinkled out of the abandoned earbud. Derek’s eyes had narrowed at the phone, then at him, and he’d said, “Perhaps we should look into other options.”

            Stiles dropped his head between his knees, feeling the rush of humiliation all over again. Lydia patted his back and ruffled up his hair, her touch a brief comfort in his misery.

            Derek had left Ice Cathedral before Stiles, getting dinner out with Cora for once. It seemed like Cora was not going to be staying for much longer, her company needing her back at HQ in Dublin. Stiles was a little disappointed at her impending leave, which was why he’d encouraged Derek to spend the evening with her. Derek was going to be by his side for the next eight months, at least. He wouldn’t fight for one night.

            Especially when he was agitated with his stupid coach.

            Stiles sighed as he packed his things away and shouted a goodbye to Lydia before starting his walk home. The sun had set an hour ago, and the stars were peeking out from behind the clouds. It was a bit chilly, so Stiles had bundled up in his thick jacket. He shoved his hands into his pockets to stay warm, fingers coming into contact with his headphones.

            Stiles paused his walk and pulled out his phone, plugging the earbuds into the headphone jack. He opened his music app and found the single-song album he was looking for. Kira had sent him the MP3 file with the title stiles_FS_demo, leaving the name of the song up to him, but Stiles had not put the effort into choosing one after Deaton’s shut-down.

            He pressed play, letting the soft piano wash over him. He stood on the side of the road for those three minutes and fifty seconds, forcing himself to listen to the song without any distractions around him. Thirty seconds into it, he wished he could turn it off.

            The music was beautiful, don’t get him wrong. Kira was a fantastic composer, it was nothing against her or her abilities. It was what she had to work with that was the problem. He’s asked her to create a piece that encapsulated his ice skating career, and she’d done it. The music was underwhelming because his career was underwhelming.

            And if he really thought about it, Stiles wasn’t irritated at Derek. Derek was right to suggest looking somewhere else. If Stiles were to skate to this piece, it would take away his entire message that he was trying to exclaim: that he had changed, and people needed to watch the new him.

            Stiles had always had his coaches pick his music and choreograph his routines. But Derek wasn’t like that. He decided what story he wanted to tell the audience and then choreographed to fit that story, and had music composed to complement it. He did it all himself. Stiles had always wanted to do that. It was a nice pipe dream.

            Stiles finished his walk home in a daze. He entered an empty house, leaving the lights off as he stumbled into the kitchen to heat up some leftover gulasz before taking it to his room to eat while he tried to figure out what to do with his free program. 

            Stiles set his empty bowl aside once he finished and stared at the piece of paper in front of him. Okay, time to work.

            Nothing. Stiles’ head was a complete blank. Sure, there were lots of songs that Stiles wanted to skate to, but none of them felt anywhere near right. He scrolled through the music on his phone for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last few days, but nothing stood out except for that _stupid_ demo ( _sorry Kira, not stupid_ , Stiles mentally chastised himself).

            Stiles let his mind wander as he exited the music app and found himself opening up Instagram. Scott had posted a new picture, a selfie of him smiling at the camera, leg extended high as he stood in an arabesque. He wondered if Deaton had chosen Scott’s music again this year, or if the American wanted to make it his own, like Stiles did.

            Without much thought, Stiles opened up FaceTime and called Scott, leaning back in his desk chair. He stared at the live video of his own face taking up the whole screen. He looked tired. He felt tired. Defeated.

            “Stiles!” Scott’s cheerful voice made Stiles snap to attention. Scott waved at him and Stiles couldn’t help his return smile. Scott’s happiness was infectious.

            “Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said on a sigh.

            “It’s been way to long, man! How’ve you been?” Scott asked. Stiles could see people moving in a blur behind Scott. He was still at the rink, Stiles realized. Of course, he was, it was early afternoon still in America.

            “Are you and Deaton still at the same rink?” Stiles asked rather than answer Scott’s question. He knew the deflection would be lost on Scott.

            “Nope! After graduation, Detroit got boring without you.” Scott’s pout looked ridiculous on his adult face, hair no longer long and stringy like a puppy. “Moved back home to NorCal officially last week, and Deaton came with!”

            “That’s great,” Stiles said sincerely. “I’ll bet your mom missed you.” Melissa had visited once a year when Stiles and Scott were in college. She would stay for a week in the spring, and Scott brought her to the rink with him every day of that week. She was a really sweet woman, and she worked really hard. Scott gushed about her often.

            “It’s great seeing her every day again,” Scott agreed, teeth a bright white as he grinned. “You should come visit sometime! I’ll show you around!”

            Stiles chuckled. “Sounds good, I’ll look forward to it.”

            Scott gave a thumbs-up to the camera, obscuring half of his face. Stiles rolled his eyes, and when they settled, they landed on the scribbled-on paper on the desk.

            “Hey, Scott, do you remember that music student in our third year who I had compose a piece for me, that I never ended up using?”

            Scott’s face lit up, cheeks pinking a delightful shade. “Kira! Yeah! She was part of the conservatory. Wow was she good!”

            Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Yes, she was…” Stiles pursed his lips, remembering the fallen look on Kira’s face when he had to admit to her that he was not going to be using her composition.

            “It…It’s okay!” she’d assured him, squeezing his hand. “I hope you’ll keep it though. Maybe you can use it later.”

            “Thanks so much, Kira,” was all Stiles had been able to say in response to that.

            “I didn’t really talk to her after that,” Stiles admitted to Scott. “I felt too awkward about it.”

            For some reason, Scott managed to pick up on what Stiles wasn’t saying, and he made another affirmative gesture at the camera. “No problem, man. I’ll look her up, see if I can’t get her email address for you.”

            Stiles sighed, feeling tension leak out of his shoulders. “Scott, that would be great. Thanks.”

            “I’m sure she’s not mad or anything,” Scott added, smile a little softer. “Kira’s too sweet to ever be mad at anyone.”

            Stiles didn’t have high hopes that he could talk Kira into taking another look at the piece and giving it a second try, but it couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

            Confidence. He just had to have confidence.

***

            “You haven’t decided yet?” Derek asked him, voice loud in the empty rink as Stiles leaned against the boards to carefully wipe the ice off of his blades. He didn’t look at Derek, not wanting to admit it.

            He’d heard back from Scott a day ago, and Scott had talked to Kira and gotten her email address (“And phone number, Stiles! I think she’s really wanting to catch up with me! Us!”). Stiles, with the confidence one only had at three in the morning, shot her a short email, explaining where he was and what he was hoping she could do. He hadn’t heard back yet.

            The longer he went without a response, the more his anxiety grew. It had taken fifteen minutes after yesterday’s practice to get his hands to stop shaking long enough for him to undo his laces. 

            Derek sighed for what Stiles assumed was the four thousandth time in an hour. “Why can’t you trust your instincts? Think about what you want your program to tell. What music speaks to your message?”

            Stiles continued to ignore Derek’s unhelpful advice. He really was crap at this coaching stuff, sometimes.

            “Think about a time with a girlfriend, maybe, when you were in love.”

            “What?” Stiles shouted, head snapping up to stare at Derek, eyes narrowed, a sneer twisting his lips. Derek knew _damn_ well —

            Derek’s eyes were wide in surprise. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

            Stiles deflated, head falling to his chest with a defeated sigh. “Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s just that, right now I — I can’t —”

            “No, no.” Derek held a hand out in front of himself, like he was surrendering. “That’s. I forgot you’ve never…” Derek stopped talking. Stiles thought his face was going to melt off.

            They dropped the subject, and Stiles went back to forming his step sequence, Derek shouting out encouragements every once and a while, and fixes on the hour.

            Before Stiles managed to escape to his bedroom later that night, Derek caught him by the elbow and stopped him.

            “Stiles. Let’s do something tomorrow.”

            Stiles furrowed his brow in confusion. “After practice?”

            “Instead of practice,” Derek corrected, surprising Stiles. “Take me to your favorite place in Tarczyn. Besides Ice Cathedral,” he added with a smirk.

            Stiles couldn’t say no, so he just nodded dumbly.

            Derek let go of his arm, slowly, but the warmth of his touch lasted throughout the night.

            Stiles stared at the mail app on his phone, refreshing it every five minutes. No email from Kira.

***

            There was a meadow that Stiles’ mother used to take him to when he was younger than school age. They would spend hours there, just lying in the grass, picking at the dandelions, staring up at the blossoming trees, and admire the short windmill not far off in the distance. It was the perfect place to watch the sun rise.

            Stiles dragged Derek out of bed to see it, feeling like he’d been able to kill two birds with one stone. He was doing what Derek asked of him, to spend time with him outside of the rink, but he was also getting revenge for the early wake-up calls.

            Derek didn’t complain, oddly enough, but Stiles tried not to show his irritation with the lack of response to anything at the early hour. It wasn’t too long of a walk, but it did take about twenty minutes for Stiles to get them there and then find his favorite tree to lean against to watch the sunset or sunrise. He patted the grass next to him, instructing without words for Derek to sit down.

            Derek did sit, after he surveyed the area, turning a full 360 to admire all of the trees in the light of dawn. It really was beautiful. This was one of the things Stiles had missed the most about going to school far from home. Views like this you couldn’t just take a picture of, you needed to experience them.

            Luckily, it was not a very cloudy day, so the sky was clear when the sun began to rise, illuminating the ground and the tips of the trees with its glow. They sat in silence as the world began to wake up. Stiles hooked his chin over his knees and curled his arms around his shins, to protect himself from the morning wind. Derek relaxed in the grass, sprawled out without a care in the world. He held himself up with his hands, arms propping his shoulders up from behind.

            As soon as the sun appeared enough to make Stiles avert his gaze from the sky, Derek started to talk.

            “Ever since I got here, it’s been these beautiful views of nature that reminded me of home. It’s not the same in Ireland, but all the greenery around, the plants and the animals, they’ve all felt familiar.”

            Stiles hummed, to let Derek know he was listening.

            “I never thought I’d leave Dublin. It was a struggle getting accepted into the ISU in the first place, so leaving what I’d spent so much time on was foreign to me.”

            The confession felt open-ended, to Stiles. Derek didn’t say anything else, didn’t even look at him. He just smiled softly as he stared at the sky and the colors starting to bloom.

            Stiles took a deep breath. It was his turn, wasn’t it?

            “When I was in Detroit, one of my rink mates — my roommate as well, actually — was injured. And there was this other girl who skated with us. She was nice, I guess, but kind of pushy. Sharp nails.” Stiles shook his head. “Anyway, when Scott got hurt…I was devastated, you know? He was basically my only friend out there, and for him to be out of commission was implausible.

            “She sat next to me in the waiting room while I was trying not to fall into a panic attack because no one was telling us anything about him. She tried to comfort me, I guess, but her touch, it…” Stiles shuddered and blamed it on the wind. “I walked away from her. I couldn’t accept her comfort.”

            “Why?” Derek asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

            “I guess I didn’t want her to see me as weak,” Stiles said a moment later after some silent reflection. “It felt like she was intruding on my feelings, when I hadn’t invited her in. I didn’t like it.”

            Stiles sniffled and wiped the back of his sleeve under his nose. “But then I thought about Lydia, and Jackson, and Natalie, and my Dad, and even Scott, and…I realized that I never felt that way around them. They didn’t treat me like my feelings, or my anxiety, was a weakness. They knew where the line was, I guess, and never crossed it.”

            Derek made a noise, and Stiles glanced over at him, propping his cheek against his kneecap. His head felt heavy.

            “You’re not weak, Stiles,” Derek said, his smile fond. “I don’t think anyone believes that.”

            _It’s hard to believe that, sometimes_ , Stiles thought, and turned his head away.

            “What am I to you, Stiles?” Derek asked, the question coming a little out of nowhere.

            When Stiles peeked over, Derek’s face had a light flush to it, like he hadn’t expected himself to ask that either. But it didn’t look like he regretted the question. He didn’t take it back, either.

            “Am I just a mentor to you?” Derek elaborated a second later. “A father figure?”

            Stiles hid a wince. “No.” _Definitely not_.

            “A friend, then? A brother?”

            Stiles stayed quiet, not sure how to answer Derek. None of those seemed to fit what Stiles wished for Derek to be for him. He didn’t really even have any expectations for Derek to be something for him other than a coach. So why was Derek…?

            “Then, your boyfriend, I guess. I will do my best.”

            Stiles choked on air and simultaneously his leg cramped up, forcing him to unfold himself as he tried to bite back a whine of pain as he flexed and relaxed his leg muscle. “No!” Stiles shouted, far too quickly and loudly. His face burned. “No,” he repeated, softly, to himself. “You don’t need to be anything else other than yourself.” He looked Derek in the eye, to show him how serious he was.

            Derek stared back at him, that frustratingly blank expression back on his face.

            Stiles sighed before standing up, working his leg until the cramp left. “I’ve always looked up to you,” he found himself admitting, though he didn’t think he’d been very subtle about his hero-worship during those first few days. “I argued with you and hid things to distract you from my shortcomings. And I’m sorry for that.” He stood in front of Derek and held out a hand. “I’ll make up for it in my skating.”

            Derek glanced down at the hand and then up at his face, squinting slightly. The sun must have been right behind him.

            Then, Derek’s signature smirk slowly formed on his face. “Okay.” He held out a hand too. “I won’t let you off easy, then.”

            Stiles took Derek’s hand to pull him up, and even once Derek was standing, they didn’t break apart. They held hands for a moment, a mockery of an agreement shake. It felt like something much more, to Stiles.

            “That’s how I show my love,” Derek admitted, squeezing their interlocked hands.

            Stiles huffed out a laugh and ducked his head, shaking it side to side. Derek was so unbelievable.

            Their relationship was an easy give-and-give. When Stiles opened up, Derek accepted him and opened himself up as well. Maybe that was what he needed to do, to unlock that special whatever was missing from this free skate. Open up.

            “Hey, Derek,” Stiles called as they started to walk back, the sun now fully risen in the sky. “Wanna head over to Ice Cathedral?”

            Derek smiled and nodded, like he expected the question. “Sure. If you make breakfast, I’ll prepare our bags.”

            Stiles grinned. “Deal.”

            Stiles made a quick breakfast, as promised, and made extra for his father and Cora too. He covered them in cling wrap before setting them onto an empty shelf in the fridge. Derek was still getting ready, so Stiles slipped into his room to change before eating and heading back out.

            His computer made a chiming noise, and Stiles glanced over at it in confusion. What was that from? None of his open tabs had a new notification, and it wasn’t until he looked at the little flashing letter icon in the corner that he realized he’d turned email alerts on.

            Heart in his throat, Stiles clicked on the icon until it stopped flashing and the page popped up, showing that he did, indeed, have one new email. A grin broke out across his face when he saw it was from Kira, and he opened it and read it quickly. His happiness built as he read that Kira was actually overjoyed to hear from him and would Capital-L Love to revisit an old piece of hers.

            Stiles typed up a quick thank you email, which mainly consisted of the praise being repeated several times over. He pressed send and then grabbed his phone, shooting off a text to Scott to thank him as well and tell him the good news.

            _Tell him._ He had to tell Derek!

            Stiles burst from the room and slid into the kitchen where Derek had already demolished half of his plate.

            “Derek! Kira said yes!”

            A piece of egg fell from Derek’s lip. He slowly arched a single eyebrow.

            “Kira,” Stiles repeated, speaking slowly. “She was the conservatory student from Detroit, the one who composed the first demo? She said she was going to give it another shot!”

            Derek’s eyes lit up, though his expression remained the same. “That’s good. Keep me posted. I want to hear it as soon as you get it, okay?”

            “Of course!” Stiles sputtered, reaching around Derek to grab his own plate and start eating. “Derek?” he asked, not a moment later.

            Derek glanced up lazily, showing that he was listening even if he was concentrating on eating.

            “Since the music isn’t ready yet, can you…” Stiles took a deep breath. “Please teach me all of the jumps that you can do.”

            Stiles didn’t mean for his words to come out sounding like a command. He had said ‘please’ hadn’t he? He didn’t back down though, keeping his eyes on Derek as the older man chewed thoughtfully before he swallowed and reached for his glass of water.

            After he took a sip, he said, “Sure, if you can keep up.”

            Two hours later, it was Derek who was the one panting while Stiles begged him to go over the quadruple flip one more time.

            “Haven’t we done it enough?” Derek asked, laughter in his voice. “I feel like I’ve done it a million times.”

            “Only thirteen,” Stiles corrected him, a shit-eating grin on his face.

            Derek arched an eyebrow and huffed. “You’ve got pretty good stamina, you know I’ve realized?” He shook his head and reached down to brush ice off of his blades.

            Stiles scoffed. “I have that, at least,” he agreed with a nod of his head.

            Derek and he were dripping with sweat. He watched as drops of perspiration that dotted Derek’s forehead slid down his cheek and fell to rest in his stubble.

            Derek was saying something about him and competitions, so he knew he should probably be paying attention. But that damn stubble was so distracting. Sometimes Stiles wished to just reach out and —

            “Ah! Sorry!” Stiles shouted and slid back a few steps. His hand fell away from Derek’s cheek where he’d brushed his fingers along the rough stubble there. It was softer than he thought it would be.

            Derek kept his head lowered, seemingly in shock from the sudden touch. Stiles wasn’t sure if he should apologize again, or possibly leave the country?

            “Does it really look that bad?” Derek asked.

            Stiles reacted immediately. “No! No, it looks great! Everything looks great! Piękny[iv]!” he added for good measure.

            Apparently, that didn’t help. Derek’s face turned red so suddenly that Stiles feared he wasn’t breathing.

            Someone was laughing, and Stiles spotted Jackson and Lydia leaning against the boards on the other side of the ice.

            “Guess the man can’t take a compliment from you, Stiles!” Jackson teased.

            Stiles barely stopped himself from chucking his skate at Jackson’s head, and he only didn’t because Lydia was right next to him.

***

            Cora was leaving to head back to Ireland in two days. Her suitcases were mostly packed by now, only some clothes strew across the room that she and Derek shared. She had been pulling longer nights this last week, to get everything ready for her return so that it would be a smooth transition. Derek was really proud of the woman that she had become and was growing into. He was really going to miss her.

            “Think you’re going to make it without me here?” Cora asked that night. Her laptop was half closed in her lap, the screen illuminating her face in the dark room.

            Derek glanced over at her and smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m going to be fine.”

            Cora raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because yesterday you were whining about Stiles in your sleep.”

            Even though he knew it was a lie, Derek still blushed at the thought. “I was not. I don’t complain about him.”

            Cora’s face softened. “I know you don’t. But you guys talked, right? Worked it out?”

            Derek scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his beard was growing out quickly. He wondered if he should shave it, or if the new look made him look more like a coach. He’d always had to shave it for competitions, but he always liked having a dark dust of stubble over his cheeks.

            “We talked, yeah. I think…I don’t think we’ll have any issues, from here on out. We will talk through anything if it comes up. But I…I trust him.”

            Cora’s knee spasmed and she set her laptop onto the floor just in case of another sudden surprise that would make her launch it across the room.

            Derek rolled his eyes at her reaction. Cora kept poking him in the arm. After five minutes, she got bored and stopped.

            “I’m really happy for you, big brother,” she whispered.

            When Derek turned over to look at her, she was fast asleep, mouth gaped open a little. Derek was tempted to take a photo, but he held back. Because he was a good big brother.

            Derek felt too awake now to sleep, even though when he turned his phone on, the brightness of the screen burned his eyes. He spent a while just scrolling through various social media, replying to some tweets on twitter. He checked his account balances on his bank apps. Played a round of solitaire.

            It was close to one thirty in the morning when there was a thump in the hallway. That sound was Derek’s only warning before the door to the bedroom was thrown open, and an energetic Stiles tumbled in, open laptop held protectively in his arms.

            “Derek! The music is ready!” Stiles shouted, ignoring all basic rules of politeness. He knee-crawled onto the bed and up to Derek, straddling his knees as he propped his laptop against Derek’s chest and pressed a pair of earbuds into his hands.

            Derek fumbled with the headphones, exhaustion hitting him suddenly, but he managed to get a hold on them and slip them into his ears.

            “Whaza?” Cora mumbled, having been woken up from the movement and noise. When she shuffled around and spotted Stiles and Derek, she groaned. “Bhfuil tusa ag scige ormsa[v]?” she asked, and Derek snorted. She picked up Derek’s abandoned phone and glanced at the time. Her face turned to steel and her glare went straight to Stiles. “Fucking one thirty in the morning, Stiles!”

            “I’m sorry!” he apologized through laughter. “But I had to get Derek to listen to this right now.”

            Stiles pressed a button on the laptop, and immediately Derek knew that this was the song for Stiles. He met Stiles’ gaze, and they both shared an excited look.

            “This is it,” Derek declared.

            Stiles cheered.

            “Go the fuck to sleep!” Cora shouted, hitting both of them with a pillow.

***

            “For a greater impact,” Derek said to Stiles as they stood on the outside of the boards, going over the points of the routine, “maybe think of changing the last jump into a quadruple toe loop.”

            Stiles marked those changes on his notepad where he’d been making little notes for the past few days as he and Derek finally began to build his free program. He squiggled in a question mark next to it, however, and glanced up at Derek. “Are you sure. A quad?”

            “With your stamina, I think you could pull it off,” Derek said casually. “If you don’t think you can do it, though —”

            “I can do it!” Stiles countered, hand tightening around his pen and notepad. He leaned into Derek’s space, their noses almost brushing, and stared him down, waiting for his rebuttal.

            Derek smirked, a soft exhale of air coming from his nose that surprised Stiles. “Okay,” Derek said and then turned away without a flinch, as if he hadn’t been centimeters apart from Stiles seconds ago.

            “Oh, right,” Derek said suddenly as he shrugged his leather jacket off of his shoulders and draped it over the boards, leaving him in a pair of black sweatpants and a pale blue three-quarter sleeved shirt. “Did you change the musical theme?”

            Stiles bit his lower lip and briefly averted his gaze. He flipped his notepad closed and clipped the pen to the pages, setting it on the lip of the boards and played with finding the perfect balance for a moment before he worked up the courage to look at Derek again.

            “Yes,” Stiles said. “I’ve decided the theme is ‘On my love’.”

            They stared at each other, and Stiles dared not to breathe to disturb the hovering air around them. He waited for Derek to make a move, and then he would go off of him.

            “That is the best theme,” Derek replied, face stoic but sincere. “Perfect.”

            Stiles licked his lips and held in his smile.

            “Right, let’s finish this, then,” Derek said, breaking the tension around them as he skirted past Stiles towards the sound booth’s entrance from inside the rink. He slipped the CD into the player and snagged the remote. Stiles watched him through the glass as he slowly made his way towards the ice, psyching himself up.

            They’d been practicing this for days, changing little things here and there. But the core was strong. Stiles had that list of jumps memorized now. He knew his step sequence by heart. His spin combination, Derek said, was on par with his own. Stiles had this.

            Derek was on the ice now, sanding back to observe. “Ready?” he asked, remote poised in his hand.

            “Mmm,” Stiles hummed and nodded before getting into his starting position.

            _Breathe in, breathe out._

***

            The day Cora was set to leave, the Grand Prix assignments went out. Her bags were all stacked by the door, a taxi arriving to pick her up in an hour for the airport. Within that time, She and Derek, along with Stiles’ father, had decided to throw a little celebration for Stiles.

            They purchased sernik — cheesecake — and his father had scrounged up a cake candle from somewhere in the kitchen and stuck it into a slice of the cake and lit it. Stiles blew it out, wishing for good luck in his competitions.

            As the four tucked into their slices of dessert, Stiles keeping a close eye on just how much of that dessert his father ate, Derek talked over the assignments and how they were going to go. He mostly was explaining it to Stiles’ father, who was not involved at all during Stiles’ stint last year in the Grand Prix, so it was all pretty new to him.

            “In early November will be the Cup of China, Stiles’ first Grand Prix competition. At the end of November, he will compete in the Rostelecom Cup in Russia. If he places high enough in both, putting him in one of the top six spots, he and the other five will go on to the Grand Prix Final which will be in Barcelona, Spain this year,” Derek explained, gesturing with his fork like he was pointing at a map and showing Stiles’ father where these places were.

            Stiles was sitting in silence, watching amused as Derek talked so animatedly about this stuff. He didn’t think he’d ever heard that many words come out of Derek at once!

            “But because of Stiles…performance last year…” Stiles winced, hiding himself behind his cheesecake. “…he has to qualify, meaning he needs to receive a one-sixty-eight-point-six-zero in a national competition. So he will also be going to Warsaw in a few months to get that qualification.”

            “That’ll be easy for you, Stiles,” Cora said. Stiles felt touched. That was almost a compliment. “The rest of the Polish men’s figure skaters are, what, seventeen?” She snickered into her napkin. Stiles pouted.

            “Your friend, Scott. He’s going to be in the Cup of China as well?” his father asked, pointing with his fork at the open laptop in the middle of the table, that displayed the six Grand Prix competitions leading up to the final and where they were listed to compete.

            Stiles grinned, feeling that wave of giddiness all over again that he’d felt when he first saw ‘Scott McCall’ on the list. “Yeah! It’ll be great to see him again.

            “That Theo guy will be in Russia, though,” he found himself thinking aloud as he looked over the lists. “I hate that guy so much.”

            “Then beat him,” Derek said with a shrug.

            Stiles nodded. “I will.”

            Derek smirked. “But first, you have to beat all of the Polish seventeen-year-olds.”

            Stiles threw his napkin at Derek, but it didn’t go far and instead landed pathetically onto the keyboard of the laptop. He stared at it dejectedly. Betrayal. Utter betrayal.

            Cora said something, and Derek laughed at her. Stiles admired the way Derek’s eyes crinkled when he laughed.

            It was weird, not seeing Derek’s name in any of the line-ups. It felt almost wrong to be competing in the Grand Prix without Derek Hale on the ice.

            Instead, Derek will be standing next to him, rather than across, or down the ice. The thought sent a thrill through Stiles.

            For years, Stiles had felt like he was alone in his skating. He wasn’t fighting for anyone else, and he hardly thought of himself as someone worth fighting for. But now Derek was here, and all of that had changed in such a short amount of time. Within a month, Derek had managed to show Stiles how to fight, and remind him with a gentle hand that there were other people who would fight _for_ him, too.

            Tarczyn was the same. Ice Cathedral was the same. But there were a lot of differences now, too. Everything felt so new.

            Stiles knew that what had happened in the past was never going to change, and that meant that there was a lot of things that he couldn’t change in the future due to his past. He couldn’t make back what he’d lost. But what he had to gain, what was now open in front of him…limitless.

            “Oh, by the way, Stiles,” Cora spoke as she was bundling herself up to head out. “What did you end up titling your song. For the free skate?”

            “I…I didn’t. Yet,” he admitted.

            “Don’t think too hard about it. Sometimes the songs that Derek has composed don’t come with titles either, and he _loathes_ titling.” She giggled, as if she’d just shared a family secret.

            “So, think simple?” he asked.

            Cora shrugged. “Sure, call it what it feels like, I guess.”

            Stiles and his father left Cora and Derek to say their goodbyes after they had both hugged her and wished her well. As his father set about cleaning up the cake dishes, Stiles slipped into his bedroom and retrieved the blank-covered CD sitting on his desk.

            He stared at the white circle for a minute, sharpie in hand. _Call it what it feels like._

            Oh. Okay.

            The sharpie squeaked across the CD as Stiles made his strokes definitive, not wanting horrible hand writing on his first composed free skate.

            Stiles felt a presence behind him as he capped his marker and set it aside, and he stood up and turned to find Derek in his door way. The man’s eyes were a little red, but Stiles didn’t comment.

            “You came up with a title?” Derek asked, sounding surprised.

            Stiles grinned and waved the closed CD case in the air. “You can thank Cora for the inspiration,” he admitted before passing the case over to his coach.

            Derek glanced down at it and smiled. “‘Stiles on ICE’. It fits.”

            Stiles took in Derek’s smile, the way his fingers brushed against the plastic of the CD case, the upright posture of his back.

            _Figure skaters are only competitive for a short amount of time_ , Stiles thought as he took the CD back from Derek and pushed him out of his room, demanding a little privacy, _please_.

            Staring at the CD, Stiles repeated the motion Derek had and traced the letters he’d written over the plastic with his finger. This was probably going to be his last season of competitive skating.

            The muffled sounds of voices echoed in the hallway, and Stiles hoped his father was being nice to Derek. He could sometimes be a little overprotective. After all, the hearts of ice skaters were pretty fragile.

            Stiles put the CD back onto his desk and fell back onto his bed. Stiles didn’t know how long Derek was going to stick around, or how long his body would hold up. He rubbed at the soles of his feet as he thought this, massaging the aching muscles.

            _So, please God_ , Stiles begged, _give me Derek’s time, if only just for now._

            Five and a half months. Stiles had five and a half months until his first competition of the season. He would be ready. With Derek at his side, he would be invincible.

***

Mid October; Warsaw, Poland:

            At the qualifying rounds for Nationals held in Warsaw, Stiles took home the gold. If he hadn’t, Derek would have been very surprised. After everything they’d been through over the last five months of training, Derek expected nothing less out of this competition.

            Stiles had been nervous, very visibly, at first. At last year’s Nationals, Stiles bombed horribly, falling in a staggering eleventh place. After his loss at the Grand Prix Final, his resolve had been so shaken, that even though he was the best physically capable skater in the entire country, pretty much, his mental faculties were on their sides.

            Stiles had admitted to him a week before the competition that he’d had several panic attacks, starting with the one he had in the bathroom at the Grand Prix Final, that set him up for failure, the last one happening ten minutes before he was to skate his short program at Nationals.

            After that epic defeat, Stiles had been so exhausted mentally that he basically closed up. He graduated in a daze and then moved back home with the assumption that he probably wouldn’t be skating any longer. That attitude didn’t last long when assaulted with Lydia, of course, and his father’s encouragement. But the fact that all of that had happened was something Stiles had not fully recovered from.

            During the practice skate before the qualifying competition, where skaters had the chance to get acclimated to the rink and its differences, feel the ice under their blades, and practice their routines so that they were warmed up an in good shape for the competition, Derek had watched Stiles struggle. He was perfectly fine physically, but there was a deep-set frown on his face and deep lines on his forehead, which meant he was thinking too hard.

            _Get out of you head, stupid_ , Derek thought but didn’t say.

            Derek had donned on the single suit he’d brought with him to Poland, wanting to make a good impression. This was his first competition where he would not be on the ice, but next to it as a coach. He didn’t want to give anyone the impression that he wasn’t serious about his job.

            Stiles’ face had gone red when he saw Derek, immediately whining and wondering why Derek had to go and change, because it was just attracting attention. Derek had rubbed at the stubble across his cheeks, asked Stiles if he should have shaved as well. Stiles had gone beet red and stormed off without a word. But after months with Stiles, Derek knew what he wasn’t saying and just laughed at the embarrassed reaction.

            Derek had tried to say something to encourage Stiles before he headed onto the ice for his six-minute warm-up before the short program, but Stiles had clammed up again, giving Derek the silent treatment. He’d handed his blade covers to Derek without a word and then stepped onto the ice. It irked Derek that Stiles was being so cold, but he had to remind himself that Stiles was just concerned about his performance. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, he was just nervous.

            Stiles had drawn the first slot, so his short program was up first. And though he appeared calm to anyone who didn’t know him, Derek could see the tremor in his hands as he skated over to the boards and reached out for his water bottle, which Derek handed to him without protest. Stiles tipped his head back as he swallowed, and when he released his mouth from the lid he released a soft gasp, like he was having a difficult time getting air.

            “Turn around,” Derek had commanded without much thought.

            Stiles’ face finally showed another emotion besides fake nonchalance as his eyes widened, mouth dropping open an attractive gape. “What?”

            “You heard me,” Derek growled, eyebrows low.

            Stiles huffed, but did as he was ordered and turned his back to Derek, grumbling, “Jesus, fine, whatever…”

            Derek waited a beat, asking himself if he was actually going to do this, before throwing out any insecurities. He raised his arms and wrapped them around Stiles, startling a gasp out of the man and Derek pulled him back against the boards into a hug.

            Derek’s head was tucked over Stiles’ left shoulder, mouth dangerously close to Stiles’ cheek. He could hear Stiles’ rapid breathing, feel the warmth of his cheek as it flooded with heat. He’d raised his head slightly so that his lips ghosted the shell of Stiles’ ear, and he breathed, “Seduce me with all you have, my fox.”

            Reporters and photographers were blinding them with flashes of light from cameras, but Derek paid them no mind. All he focused on was the hitch in Stiles’ breath and the hesitant curl of fingers around his gloved wrist. “Derek!” Stiles gasped.

            “If you can seduce me, then you can capture the attention of the entire audience.” He brushed his lips over Stiles’ jaw, just to feel his reaction, before adding, “That’s what I tell you in practice, right?”

            The tension in Stiles’ body slowly uncoiled as the younger man’s shoulders relaxed and Stiles fell a little bit more into Derek’s embrace. “Right,” Stiles replied on a breath.

            Derek released him, his arms falling back to his sides on his side of the boards. Stiles turned to stare at him, and his face was a delightful pink. His eyes were narrowed slightly, like he was saying, “You did that on purpose.” Derek smirked, responding to his words with a silent affirmation.

            As Derek watched Stiles perform his short program, he couldn’t help but visualize all of their practices over the last five months. It had taken Stiles a long while to get Eros down, and he still struggled with it sometimes. But seeing this performance compared to the Ice Cathedral sneak-peak, there was no question. Stiles was much more steady now, his movements smooth as he glided to the music.

            Derek had encouraged him during practice to act as if he was trying to seduce the audience, who at that time was really just him. Maybe it was a little bit of a selfish whim, but Derek had already known what it was like to be seduced by Stiles, and the man hadn’t even been trying, too drunk off his arse to notice.

            Derek had pumped his fist as Stiles nailed the spread eagle into the triple axel. His form had been great, the landing smooth, and his face stayed calm and relaxed the whole time he was in the air.

            He peeked his hands over his mouth as he leaned forward. Stiles prepped for a jump into a quadruple Salchow, but he over rotated and had to put his hand down. _He didn’t fall_ , Derek thought as he sighed in relief. Stiles didn’t stutter and continued his routine.

            The combination jump, the one worth the most points, was coming up next, so Derek braced himself, and he could see Stiles doing the same. His step sequence leading into it was perfect, his body creating music just like Derek had told him it did. The beautiful way he moved drew Derek in, and he knew Stiles had latched in to the performance.

            Stiles went up with the quad toe loop, perfect, went back up for the triple —it turned into a double. That was okay, Derek had thought. He skated through it, played it off. The spin sequence at the end was up to par with how Stiles had done it best in the past, and the short program was over a second later.

            Stiles had looked at him, eyes wide, smiling mouth panting as he tried to catch his breath. He was waiting for Derek’s stamp of approval.

            “The first half was great,” Derek started off with. “But then it got sloppy because you were thinking too much about the jumps.”

            Stiles’ shoulders had sagged, but he’d nodded along to everything Derek said and agreed with him. Their professional relationship had evolved much over these months of training, and Stiles no longer fought Derek on every critique he gave him, instead accepting them as helping hands to improve himself the next time.

            Derek squeezed Stiles’ shoulder and gave him a small smile, though, when he received a score of 94.36, a new personal best for him by over ten points. Derek couldn’t help but lay in a soft jab about how he’d expected a score in the hundreds, but from the shove Stiles gave him in response, Derek knew Stiles knew that he’d mostly been teasing.

            The good mood immediately evaporated, however, when Derek suggested that for the free skate the next day that Stiles lower the difficulty of the jumps, because it was so early in the competitive season that he had no reason to go all out in the first competition. Stiles fought him on it, but Derek held firm. If Stiles flubbed up his quads, it would only wreck his confidence. And this early on, that was something that Derek would do anything to stop.

            “One quad,” Derek instructed, listening to no more arguments after that. “Will you not listen to your coach?” Derek asked, voice dripping with innocence.

            Stiles’ face went red, cheeks puffed out. Derek patted his head like a dog.

            Even though he’d explicitly been told not to…Derek couldn’t help but grin at the blatant disregard of his orders as Stiles still went through with the three quads in his free program. He should have guessed it, with the way Stiles had gone quiet and introspective before his turn. Because he was well in first place, the other three skaters scoring in the 60s for their short programs, he was going to perform his free skate last, as they went in descending order of scoring. Before his turn, while the other skaters were performing, Stiles had disappeared, probably to get some alone time while he stretched. Derek knew how much Stiles liked to think and talk and do pretty much anything with words, so giving him an opportunity to let him work things out in his head was what was best. Derek knew that if Stiles got too tangled up, he would come to him.

            That trust had taken a long while to gain, but now that Derek had it he was going to hold tight with both hands and never let go.

            Right before his turn to skate, Stiles returned and walked right up to Derek. He held out a hand, and Derek took it, intrigued. Stiles pulled him close and gave him a one-armed hug, squeezing Derek’s hand with his other hand.

            When Stiles stepped out of the hug. Derek raised his hands and cupped Stiles’ cheeks, thumbing the bags under his eyes. He clicked his tongue, making a _tsk_ noise, which made Stiles smirk. Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of concealer. Stiles never liked wearing it, but the people of the world didn’t want to see tired skaters, so Derek brought it with him, in case Stiles looked especially exhausted.

            Even though the bags were heavy, there was an ease in Stiles’ shoulders and the way he stood, like he wasn’t nervous at all, much different than yesterday’s short program.

            Derek removed his glove, pinching the tip of the middle finger with his teeth and pulling it off. Stiles took it from his mouth and held it. Derek squeezed a small dollop of concealer onto his pointer finger and lightly dabbed it underneath Stiles’ eyes, hiding away most of the bruises.

            “The costume looks beautiful on you,” Derek had whispered as he moved over to the left eye, gently brushing Stiles’ face.

            It really did. Stiles and Derek had picked it out together, spending multiple evenings trying to find ideas and inspiration for the costume. Once they had a rough idea of what outfit would best fit the performance, Derek had called in his costume designer from Ireland and she designed it. Two days ago, Stiles had gotten his last fitting for it, but Derek hadn’t attended. Seeing the costume complete for the first time was breathtaking. It fit Stiles so well.

            The back of the “suit jacket” resembled a stain glass window, in Derek’s opinion. A large section of the back was made of see-through material, highlighting Stiles’ well-defined back muscles. The see-through mesh met in the front where the jacket buttoned over Stiles’ chest, teasing the skin there as well. The material of the rest of the outfit was a dark blue with a black collar. Up the back, over the shoulders, and down the lapels sparkled under the lights millions of glitter specks, blanketing him like a cape.

            Derek pocketed the tube of concealer before pulled Stiles into a hug, whispering, “Ádh mór,[vi]” against his shoulder. He felt Stiles’ hands come up, belatedly, and cup the back of his neck and hip.

            It was Stiles’ lack of response to Derek speaking in his native tongue that tipped Derek off that Stiles was going to do something that he knew Derek wasn’t going to be happy about.

            Stiles took to the ice, arms outspread as he greeted the audience and nodded towards the judges in respect.

            The announcer welcomed Stiles to the ice, and introduced his program as new, with music composed for this routine choreographed by Derek Hale. If Derek was being honest, it was a group effort, but the announcer wouldn’t know that.

            Stiles ducked his head, one leg crossed in front of the other, and waited for the music to cue him in. Derek counted the beats with Stiles as soon as the music played. He would begin on beat one, two, three, four —

            Derek and Stiles modeled the program to tell the story of Stiles’ life, and all of the people he’d met along the way. It started off with Stiles when he first got into professional skating and had moved to Detroit, where he was fighting alone to stay afloat. The attached jump was a combination quad-triple, to represent —

            “A quad-double!” the announcer shouted into the microphone. “Perfect!” Derek’s eyes widened.

            There was an intense look in Stiles’ whiskey eyes. As much as Derek was confused as to why Stiles was changing up the jump elements, he could tell that Stiles was focused. It wasn’t like the day before, when he paid too much attention to the jumps. Now he was focused on the ice, on the music, and it showed.

            Except that his movements were too stiff. The natural flow his body had was lost, and Derek wanted to drag it back out. This was the part of the program that was supposed to represent their meeting and Derek becoming his coach, so why…?

            Stiles went up for a triple Salchow, but changed it into a quad mid-air. The quick switch caused him to have to step out of it, touching down on the ice with a hand to stop from falling.

            Camel spin to right himself, and then Stiles went right back to the jumps. A perfect triple toe loop that had Derek bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. This was a very rigorous program, with twelve jumps overall, several of them in combinations for a program total of seven.

            Stiles spread his arms out wide, head tipped back towards the sky; his acceptance of love, and opening himself up. It was honestly breathtaking to watch.

            With a third of the jumps down, Stiles moved into the step sequence, starting with a lunge that transitioned into a spread eagle. An Ina Bauer followed, leaving the crowd speechless. Stiles had captured their attention with one graceful move.

            Triple axel. The build-up was wrong, but Stiles hung in there and landed safely, recovering within a second to perfect a triple flip. Stiles almost lost it with the landing, his weight incorrectly distributed, but he stayed upright.

            Derek covered his face with his hands but peeked out from between his fingers. Stiles did not like to compromise, obviously. He was keeping the program as-is, ignoring Derek’s instructions to stick to a single quad. And even though he wasn’t hitting his jumps or landing them perfectly, he still had the crowd at his feet. Derek didn’t blame them.  
            Derek found himself clutching his jacket when Stiles almost managed to perfectly land his triple axel-single loop-triple Salchow combination, a hand shooting out at the last minute to balance him against the ice. Stiles was being too impatient, rushing to get to the good part, to get to the end of his story.

            But that was what made his performance so alluring to watch.

            Triple Lutz-triple flip combination, and he _nailed_ it! Derek couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Stiles was unstoppable.

            Stiles’ step sequence that followed had been so full of emotion, arms flying every which direction as he spun. Stiles was sucked into his own performance. It was all so fluid and smooth that Derek was shocked when Stiles skated too close to the boards when he went up for his (what was supposed to be, at least) triple toe loop that Stiles had made into a quad. As he came down his skate skidded, and Stiles’ face slammed into the boards, his hands coming up to stop the impact belatedly.

            Derek winced, hands clenching over the edge of the boards. Stiles seemed to shake it off, already back into his routine by the time Derek had registered what had happened. There was blood on Stiles’ face, most likely a bloody nose, so Derek didn’t worry too much. If it had been a serious head injury he would have immediately rushed him off of the ice. Still, he would be making sure there wasn’t any worry of a concussion as soon as Stiles finished.

            There was only ten seconds left of the routine. Stiles could nail the ending, Derek knew.

            What on earth had given Stiles the idea that he could change up the routine at the last second? Derek scoffed and shook his head. What kind of a skater didn’t listen to his coach?

            Derek glanced up to see Stiles staring at him in his final pose, hand extended out towards him, other hand hovering over his heart. There was a look of determination on Stiles’ mole-spotted face, though it looked like Stiles was determined not to let any more blood spill from his nose.

            Derek jerked when he recognized who Stiles reminded him of: himself.

            The crowd erupted into cheers, and Derek schooled his face. As impressed as he was with Stiles, he was a coach and he had to act like one. He put on a straight face as he walked over to the kiss-and-cry area to wait for Stiles. He couldn’t help the triumphant swagger in his step, though. That was _his_ skater. _His_ skater just did _that_.

            When Stiles turned to face him after acknowledging the judges, he was wincing, like he expected Derek to smack him. He hovered a hand over his face, like he was hiding his bloody nose, embarrassed by it. He slowly skated towards the break in the boards, an eyebrow arched in a silent question. _Well? Am I in trouble?_

            Derek pursed his lips and let out a heavy sigh, eyes narrowing at the approaching skater. Stiles’ shoulders slumped at his reaction.

            Derek sighed again, rolled his eyes and held out a hand. Stiles’ eyes widened and a huge grin split his face. “Derek!” he cried as he bolted forward, latching onto Derek’s hand with one of his own, and reaching forward with the other to curl around his bicep, hugging the appendage.

            “Watch the bloody nose,” Derek grumbled as Stiles used the offered limb to curl himself in towards Derek. Their fingers intertwined, hidden by their bodies, like a secret for only them to share. His other hand came up and gently cuffed the back of Stiles neck, though Stiles probably barely felt it.

            “Let’s get your score, idiot. And some tissues,” Derek grumbled as he pulled Stiles towards the bench and sat him down. He flagged over the EMT on standby and requested he quickly check for a concussion while he reached for the tissue box and began piling them into Stiles’ hands.

            165.20 was Stiles’ score for his free program, bringing his score to a total of 259.56. “It’s amazing you got such a high score, considering those horrible jumps,” Derek commented once the score had been shared. He was brushing a tissue over Stiles’ face, trying to clean up the last of the blood. There was a little on his lips, and he had to press harder to get that off. Stiles didn’t seem to mind, a hand still gently holding Derek’s free hand. He squeezed it, grinding the bones of Derek’s fingers together, to show his displeasure of what Derek was saying. “Though it did prove I was right that you are capable of receiving a lot of PCS points.”

            Stiles murmured something, though it was so soft that Derek couldn’t tell what was said, Stiles had probably also spoken in Polish, which wouldn’t have made it any easier. Stiles liked to use their language barrier to get away with saying things Derek didn’t want to hear. It didn’t work, usually. This time, Derek let it slide.

            “You can score even higher than that, though,” Derek added for reassurance. Stiles squeezed his hand again, this time a little gentler, and for a little longer.

            By the time they handed out the medals, Stiles had funny recovered, been passed as non-concussed by the EMT, and was grinning widely at the audience. He waved aggressively at Lydia and Jackson who had come to support him, blowing them a kiss. Lydia waved the homemade sign Natalie had made in the air, and Derek could see Stiles’ face turn an attractive pink.

            Derek applauded along with the crowd, standing next to the coaches of the other Polish skaters. He’d introduced himself to some of them, though he’d not had much conversation besides that. That was fine by Derek. He wasn’t fantastic at conversation. Interviews were easy, because he always knew roughly what they were going to ask ahead of time. But social interaction was not his forte.

            That didn’t matter to Derek right then, though. Because _his_ skater had won. And yeah, it was a local competition so the stakes weren’t so high. But there was still a gold medal around Stiles’ neck, and his fox was grinning widely and laughing at something the eighteen-year-old from Tłuszcz said to him.

            This was a good beginning of the competition season, Derek thought as a smirk grew on his face. If Stiles kept this up, there was nothing that he could not win.

            Unless he kept fucking up that quad Salchow. Then they were going to have _words_.

***

            A few days after his win, Stiles was invited to a press conference with him and a few other skaters in the country, where they would be announcing their themes for this upcoming Grand Prix Series. Derek and Stiles’ father had driven up to Warsaw the night before and stayed overnight in a hotel. The next morning, Stiles pulled out his nicest (only) suit and donned it, shaking the anxiousness out of his limbs as he met with the rest of the group of skaters in the ballroom where the press conference was being held. There was a platform set up on one end of the room, and a cluster of forty or so chairs unfolded in front of it. On the platform were just enough chairs on one side for the skaters, and in the middle of the platform was an easel stand where each skater would be displaying the poster with the title of their theme.

            There was a brief rehearsal an hour before the press was going to show up, and Stiles mentally rehearsed his speech as he took his seat after pretending to announce his theme. His knees bounced, and the girl sitting next to him shot a vicious glare at the offending appendages.

            His dad and Derek weren’t allowed to be in the room with the press, but he knew that two floors up they and a couple of others who had come with their respective skater were going to be watching it live on his father’s old laptop.

            Before Stiles knew it, the skaters were being ushered out into the hallway to wait their turn to be called back in, once the press was all seated. Those ten minutes felt like a lifetime. When the doors opened again and what felt like a million eyeballs fell on him, Stiles almost tripped getting onto the platform. The girl in line behind him snagged his suit jacket and saved him from faceplanting, and he shot her a thankful smile.

            Stiles took a deep breath as he took his seat and tried to relax.

            “Ignore everything else,” Derek had instructed him the night before. “Just look into the camera and think of me. And your father. Talk to us.”

            “Up next,” Stiles heard the MC say, his Polish rough and obviously not his first language, “We have Mśc—cisław? Ehem, Mścisław Stilinski.”

            Stiles stood on unsteady legs and inched his way to the center of the platform. His hands were sweaty, and he feared the poster board in his hands was going to slip, so he gripped to tightly and indented it a little in the corner.

            “Mścisław Stilinski, known as ‘Stiles’ by many, is thought to be the leader of men’s single skating here in Poland. Please show us,” the MC said, gesturing towards the stand.

            Stiles suddenly forgot how words worked. He sucked in a breath. He could hear Derek’s words, feel the brush of his lips against his ear as Derek repeated, “Breathe in, breathe out.”

            Stiles released his breath and stepped forward, propping his poster up onto the easel. He took the microphone from the MC who nodded at him. Stiles turned to face the front, sweeping his eyes past all of the reporters and all of the photographers and settled them right onto the camera in the back that was broadcasting live across the internet.

            “My theme this year for the Grand Prix Series,” Stiles declared, like he would if Derek were arguing with him over something, “is love.”

            Stiles ignored the murmuring of the reporters and the loud clicks of their cameras and continued. “Throughout my entire competitive skating career I have been helped by a lot of different people, however the idea of love was never really one that occurred to me. Even though I was surrounded by support, I wasn’t able to take advantage of it all.” Stiles ducked his head. “I felt like I was fighting all by myself.”

            Stiles thought of Lydia and Jackson, Natalie squished between them as they probably sat on the couch in their tiny living room and watched the most likely shitty livestream, just for him. He imagined Scott’s smile as he talked to Deaton who would put a hand on Scott’s shoulder to support him as Scott waved his phone about, the livestream playing. He pictured his father watching with intense focus, not wanting to miss a second of what his son was saying, because he probably felt like he’d missed too much over the five years that Stiles was gone.

            He _saw_ Derek, standing in the back of the room, back against the door, hidden by the shadows of lights and other sound equipment. He was staring right at him, and he nodded.

            Stiles deviated from his carefully practiced script.

            “But ever since Derek came into my life and took on the role of my coach, I’ve seen something completely different.” Stiles’ grip tightened on the microphone. He swallowed thickly. “My ‘love’ here,” he gestured towards the poster, “is not something as clear-cut as romantic love. Rather it is the abstract feelings of my relationships. With Derek, my family and friends, with my hometown… I was finally able to realize that love exists all around me.”

            Stiles looked straight at Derek. Even though they were ten meters apart, Stiles could see those dazzling eyes as clearly as he could if Derek were standing right in front of him, nose-to-nose.

            “Derek is the first person I’ve ever wanted to hold on to,” Stiles said, voice cracking over Derek’s name. “I don’t really have a name for that emotion, but I have decided to call it love.” Stiles pumped a fist in the air, startling a gasp out of the MC and a few of the skaters behind him. “Now that I know what love is and am stronger because of it, I will prove it to myself with a gold medal from the Grand Prix Final!”

            From the back of the room, Derek grinned, and Stiles matched his enthusiasm, punching the air again before dropping his arm and passing the microphone back, thanking the media audience and the MC before taking his seat.

            Stiles’ body was jittery and shaking for a whole other reason now. Derek’s confidence in him was infectious. Derek’s smile was infectious, Derek’s everything was infectious. But honestly, Stiles had no need for the cure. He’d never felt better.

***

Early November; The Cup of China:

            _After seeing Scott’ performance, I’m no longer confused. Those who want to see Derek skate will never be satisfied with my performance. People who are cheering for me wouldn’t be satisfied with the old me, either. If that’s the case, I want to be hated as the man who took Derek Hale away from the whole world._

“The time for seducing me by thinking of vixens is over, now. You can fight with your own personal charm You can envision that, right?... Oh!”

            “Don’t _ever_ take your eyes off of me.”

_I’m the only one who can satisfy Derek. I’m the only one in the whole world who knows Derek’s love. I’ll prove it._

***

“D-Derek, it’s almost time. We have to get back.”

            “Stiles.”

            “Huh?”

            “If you mess up the free skate and miss the podium, I will take responsibility and step down as your coach.”

            “W-Why would you ever say that? I-hic-I don’t —Why would you say something like that, like you’re trying to test me?”

            “Stiles, I…I’m sorry. I was kidding, I —”

            “I’m used to being blamed for my own failures! But now I’m anxious because of you too! All of my mistakes reflect on you! It makes me wonder if you secretly want to quit.”

            “I don’t, Stiles, of course —”

            “I know!...I know…”

            “Um, I’m not good with people crying. Do you need a kiss or something?”

            “No! Just have more faith than I do that I will win! You don’t have to say anything, just stand by me!”

            “… Okay. Okay, Stiles. Shh.”

***

 _I feel a lot better after crying. Heh. Derek’s expression when I started to cry was priceless. I’ve cried after a competition before, but never before. Oh, right, my first jump: a quadruple toe loop-double toe loop combination. Hum. Better than I expected. Derek is still inexperienced as a coach. It’s not like my anxiety just started now. He should have been prepared for that. Dumbass Derek. Oh, the quad Salchow, I made it. Triple loop, cool. Triple axel, not so good. Move on, it’s fine. Next up triple flip. Oh. I wonder what Derek would do if I changed the last quad into a flip. Over rotated that combination, but I don’t feel all that tired considering how much sleep I didn’t get. Triple Lutz-triple toe loop combo. Done. I want to become stronger. I_ can _become stronger. I can surpass Derek’s wildest imagination. Let’s see if I…ouch, but I completed the four rotations on the flip. I wonder what Derek’s face looks like. Is he crying? No, is he angry? Which is it?!_

“Derek! I did great, right? Did I —mmph…! … _Mmm_ …”

            “…That was the only thing I could think of that would surprise you as much as you surprised me.”

            “Oh, is that so?”

***

Late November; Rostelecom Cup:

            _The crowd is more excited by Derek’s presence as my coach over me actually skating in the competition. It’s irritating, being overshadowed by someone whose shadow I love to stand in. But not today, not right now._

“Are you —oof!”

“The performance has already begun, hasn’t it Derek?”

            “…Yes, it has.”

            “Don’t worry. I’ll show my love for you to the whole of Russia.”

_That…that was scary. But the crowd cannot intimidate me on enemy territory. I have to intimidate them! How about a kiss. To Russia, From Stiles.       Watch me._

_If I lose here, this may be the last time I can skate this program with Derek at my side as my coach. Maybe no one in Russia, or even the entire world, wants me to win. Thinking that makes me want to shiver. Because I’m the only one who can change that world._

_Oh. A standing ovation. My skating must have gotten my message across._

“Stiles…that was _perfect_.”

            “I know.”

***

“Derek! You have to go to her! Go back to Ireland, right now!”

            “No, I. I can’t leave you here alone.”

“She is your sister, Derek! Your family! You have to go make sure she is alright! I can face the free skate tomorrow on my own.”

“I can’t leave you without a coach, Stiles! I won’t —! Bobby! Coach Finstock! …Please, I need you to coach for me. Please be Stiles’ coach tomorrow, for just one day.”

            “Huh?!”

_***_

_I don’t want them to think that everything Derek has taught me has gone to waste. I have to prove that by winning. If I fail here, everything is over. Shit! I popped it. Turned into a single. Shit, shit. No, calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm down! …How do I recover from this?_

_Think of Derek. Envision him. Hear his voice. Remember his advice. How did he know what I was feeling? Before I met Derek, I never openly said that I would win gold. I never said it at all. But I never skated with the thought of losing, in my head. I wanted to win gold at last year’s Grand Prix Final, too. Hah. I’ve come this far…because Derek believed in me. Triple loop. If I end here without making it to the Final —No. No thinking that right now. Triple axel._

_Imagine Derek. Breathe in, breathe out._

_Whether Derek is by my side or not, this would still be just as tough. Triple flip. Keep it simple. I am the only one who can skate this program with this much appeal. Triple axel-single loop-triple Salchow. Triple Lutz-triple toe loop. I am the one who loves this program that Derek and I created together the most in the whole world. I am not near finished yet. I’ll be done when I get the gold with Derek._

***

_I’m this close to the peak of my competitive skating career. I really want to win gold now. The Grand Prix Final will be my last chance. Even if I don’t win gold, I’ll have Derek step down as coach after the Grand Prix Final, and then…_

_There’s a lot I want to tell you, Derek. What do I say first?_

“Stiles…”

            “Oh…”

_Even though there’s snow in his hair, he feels so warm._

“Stiles…I’ve been thinking about what I can do as your coach from here on out.”

            “So have I. So… _Huff_! Please be my coach until I retire!”

            “Mmm… haha… That almost sounded like a marriage proposal.”

            “Oh… yeah… hmm. _Oof_.”

“…I wish you would never retire.”

            “ _D-Derek_ … Let’s win gold together in the Grand Prix Final.”

***

Early December; Barcelona, Spain:

            “Your birthday is on Christmas isn’t it, Derek.”

            “Yes. I expect a fantastic gift. What will you be getting me?”

            “Oh, I was thinking something round…and gold.”

            “What are you waiting for?”

            “Ah, oh… Come with me.”

***

Early December; The Grand Prix Final:

            The white lights up above shined down brightly, illuminating everything in the rink, and accenting every sparkle, every sequin, in every skater’s costume. The light reflected in the eyes of all of the audience members as they shook with excitement. The light found its match in the form of two identical golden rings, purchased not a full day ago, in a small Barcelona jewelry store.

            The two rings settled naturally onto the fourth finger of two distinct right hands, one snuggled up next to fingerless gloves built into the material of an outfit, and the other exposed to the world on fingers normally covered by a protective leather layer.

            Those hands intertwined, rings tinking off of one another as palms touched. Movement; intertwined hands raised to a pair of lips, and they brushed the gold shine of the opposite hand, almost like a sign of reverence.

            Eyes locked, brown meeting hazel. Such a simple act, however it spoke of an intimacy that these two could only understand.

            “Remember what I said,” the gruff Irishman softy spoke. “Skate how you liked best. Everything else will come naturally.”

            “Mmm,” was the soft reply from a determined Polish man.

            _When I step away from skating, two L words come to mind: life and love. I had been neglecting both for over ten years. And then I found you_ , the coach pondered, lips twitching.

            The neglected ring on the gloveless hand met its own pair of lips.

            _I don’t know how this is going to end_ , the skater thought as he disentangled himself from his coach, _if I will win, or if I will lose. But one thing is for certain._

            Lips once again brush that cool metal, this time no longer an intimate gesture, but a divisive move, a silent challenge defending the love that ring portrayed.

            _Derek and I, no matter where we go, no matter what happens after today… There is no stopping us._

            The crowd went silent. The music began; the skater raised his head. And off they went.

* * *

[i] Zlotys – Polish Zloty (currency); 1USD = 4.23PLN

[ii] Dziękujemy za nieustające wsparcie. – Thank you for your continued support. (Polish)

[iii] Feisí – Fuck (Gaelic)

[iv] Piękny – beautiful, handsome (Polish)

[v] Bhfuil tusa ag scige ormsa? – Are you taking the piss? (Gaelic)

[vi] Ádh mór. – Good luck. (Polish)

 

**Author's Note:**

> EXTRA:  
> “It’s kind of weird, all of us eating together like this, before the Final starts. Hah. At last year’s Final, I was pretty much by myself, even at the banquet. I couldn’t even gather up the courage to talk to Derek!”  
> “Pffft!...Stiles, do you seriously not remember?!”  
> “Huh?”  
> “I have video proof!”  
> “Ah~ahhhh! Delete that!”
> 
> As always, there's more of this madness on my tumblr at [redhoodedwolf](http://redhoodedwolf.tumblr.com)  
> And if you're more into the YoI thing, catch me at [kinghinatatobio](http://kinghinatatobio.tumblr.com)!


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